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THE 


OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 


w 


A  PRESENT  FOR  ALL   SEASONS 


EMBELLISHED   WITH 


ELEVEN  COLORED  ENGRAVINGS. 


EDITED  BY 


AMELIA  W.  LAWRENCE. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
CAREY    AND     HART. 

Ml  ('('CXI, VIM. 


1/ 


Of 


Entered  according  to  "tire  Aif  of  Cangfes3>"ih"  tks-year  1847,  by 

CAREY    AND    HART, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


\ 


PHILADELPHIA: 
T.  K.  AND  T.  G.  COLLINS,  PRINTERS. 


PREFACE. 

The  "Offering  of  Beauty"  is  intended  for  one  of  those 
elegant  testimonials  of  regard  and  affection  which,  according 
to  a  time-honored  custom,  constitute  a  part  of  the  observance 
of  the  joyous  festivals  of  Christmas  and  the  New  Year.  It 
is,  therefore,  prepared  with  a  particular  view  to  the  gratifi- 
cation of  that  innate  love  of  the  beautiful  and  the  true,  which 
forms  a  part  of  our  nature,  and  is  the  source  of  our  truest 
happiness. 

The  literary  contents  of  the  work,  it  will  be  perceived 
by  a  reference  to  the  names  of  the  contributors,  proceed, 
from  some  of  the  finest  minds  in  the  whole  circle  of  literature. 
The  tales  and  poems  are  suitable  to  the  occasion.  They 
were  abundantly  supplied,  and  it  was  the  easy  task  of  the 
editor  to  select  and  arrange  them, 

The  pictorial  embellishments  speak  for  themselves.  It  is 
believed  that  the  reader  will  find  them  by  no  means  unworthy 
of  a  place  in  the  "Offering  of  Beauty." 


iJL 


LIST  OF  EMBELLISHMENTS. 


SI  BJKCT 

PAINTER. 

ENGRAVER. 

AGNES.   . 

• 

.  H.  Wyatt.     . 

.  H.  Robinson.    .    Fiiontispjf.ce. 

ALICE.     . 

• 

.  E.  T.  Parris. 

.  H.  Egleton.    . 

42 

ISABEL. 

• 

.  E.  T.  Parris. 

.  H.  Egleton.    . 

71 

CALANTHA. . 

• 

.  Mrs.  Seyfff.rtii. 

.    II.   RoiHNSON.     . 

123 

FLORA.    . 

• 

.  Miss  Sharpe. 

.  H.  T.  Ryall.  . 

133 

THE  FLOWER 

GIRL. 

.  F. Stone. 

.  J.  Thomson.     . 

1.55 

MADELINE.    . 

• 

.  F.  Stone. 

.  II.  Cook. 

17G 

THE  YOUNG  ARTIST. 

F.  Stone. 

.  J.  Thomson.     . 

212 

OPHELIA. 

• 

.  J.  Bcstock.     . 

.  W.  O.  Jack -ian.      . 

211 

THE  PROPHETESS. 

J.  Bostock.     . 

.  L.  S.  E.  Cowpertmw  UT. 

-7  i 

CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Agnes.     A  Country  Tale.     By  Miss  Mittbrd, 13 

Sonnet, 23 

The  Countess  Lamberti.     By  Mary  How itt, 25 

The  Boor  of  the  Brocken.     By  Miss  Jewsbury, 30 

Alice.     A  West  Indian  Story, 42 

Verses  inscribed  in  an  Album.     By  Francis  Jeffrey,  Esq.,     ...  56 

The  Red  Man, 57 

Forest  Changes.     By  Derwent  Conway,  -  .70 

Isabel.     A  Tale  of  Venice.     By  Charles  Macfarlane,         .         .         .         .  71 

Past,  Present,  and  Future.     By  Dr.  Bowring, 88 

Patty  Conway.     A  Story  of  Irish  Life.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,           .         .  89 

The  Absent  Ship, 102 

Calantha, 103 

Perugia.     By  the  Rev.  Chas.  Strong, 122 

The  Orphan  Family.     By  Mrs.  Hofland, 123 

.My  Stella's  Return.     By  H.  Brandreth,  Esq., 131 

Flora  ;  or,  the  Wedding  Day, 133 

Hope.     By  Nicholas  Michel],  Esq., 143 

The  Life  of  a  Hero.     By  Mrs.  Bowdich, 144 

The  Flower  Girl  of  Savoy, 155 

The  Castle  of  St.  Michael.     By  William  Kennedy.  '   .         .         .         .  159 

To  and  on   their    approaching  Marriage.     By  William 

Roscoe,  Esq., 175 

Madeline.     A  Legend  of  Castle  Campbell.     By  Delta 17fi 

The  Broken  Hkart 190 

The  Fisherman  of  Scarphout.     By  G.  P.  R.  James,  Esq.,     .         .         .191 

Julian's  Death.     By  the  late  Edward  Knight, 211 

The  Young  Artist.     By  Virginia  Deforest 212 

For  Spain.     By  John  Banim, 221 

Moonshine.     Bj  Captain  Marryat, 223 

Ophelia.    By  Miss  Jamieson, 244 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Kisiina  Komabi, 247 

The  Favorite  Flower.     By  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,        ....  274 

The  Prophetess, 276 

Orsina  Brandini, 280 


Hfl 
(     (     (    « 


THE 


OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 


AGNES. 

A     COUNTRY     TALE. 

BY  MISS  MITFORD. 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  principal  street  in  my  native 
town  of  Cranley,  stands,  or  did  stand,  for  I  speak  of  things  that 
happened  many  years  back,  a  very  long-fronted,  very  regular, 
very  ugly  brick  house,  whose  large  graveled  court,  flanked 
on  each  side  by  offices  reaching  to  the  street,  was  divided 
from  the  pavement  by  iron  gates  and  palisades,  and  a  row 
of  Lombardy  poplars,  rearing  their  slender  columns  so  as  to 
veil,  without  shading,  a  mansion  which  evidently  considered 
itself,  and  was  considered  by  its  neighbours,  as  holding  the 
first  rank  in  the  place.  That  mansion,  indisputably  the  best 
in  the  town,  belonged,  of  course,  to  the  lawyer ;  and  that 
lawyer  was,  as  may  not  unfrequently  be  found  in  small  places, 
one  of  the  most  eminent  solicitors  in  the  country. 

Richard  Molesworth,  the  individual  in  question,  was  a 
person  obscurely  born  and  slenderly  educated,  who,  by  dint 
of  prudence,  industry,  integrity,  tact,  and  luck,  had  risen 
through  the  various  gradations  of  writing  clerk,  managing 
clerk,  and  junior  partner,  to  be  himself  the  head  of  a  great 
2 


14  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

office,  and  a  man  of  no  small  property  or  slight  importance. 
Half  of  Cranley  belonged  to  him,  for  he  had  the  passion  for 
brick  and  mortar  often  observed  amongst  those  who  have 
accumulated  large  fortunes  in  totally  different  pursuits,  and 
liked  nothing  better  than  running  up  rows  and  terraces,  re- 
pairing villas,  and  rebuilding  farm  houses.     The  better  half 
of  Cranley  called  him  master,  to  say  nothing  of  six  or  seven 
snug  farms  in  the  neighborhood,  of  the  goodly  estate  and 
manor  of  Hinton,  famous  for  its  preserves  and  fisheries,  or  of 
a  command  of  floating  capital  which  borrowers,  who  came  to 
him  with  good  securities  in  their  hands,  found  almost  inex- 
haustible.    In  short,  he  was  one  of  those  men  with  whom 
everything  had  prospered  through  life  ;   and,  in  spite  of  a 
profession  too  often  obnoxious  to  an  unjust,  because  sweeping, 
prejudice,  there  was  a  pretty  universal  feeling  amongst  all 
who  knew  him  that  his  prosperity  was  deserved.     A  kind 
temper,  a  moderate  use  of  power  and  influence,  a  splendid 
hospitality,  and  that  judicious  liberality  which  shows  itself  in 
small  things  as  well  as  in  great  ones  (for  it  is  by  twopenny 
savings  that  men  get  an  ill  name),  served  to  ensure  his  popu- 
larity with  high  and  low.    Perhaps,  even  his  tall,  erect,  portly 
figure,  his  good-humored  countenance,  cheerful  voice,  and 
frank   address,  contributed  something  to  his  reputation  ;  his 
remarkable  want  of  pretension  or   assumption  of  any  sort 
certainly  did,  and   as  certainly  the   absence  of  everything 
striking,  clever,  or  original,  in  his  conversation.     That  he 
must  be  a  man  of  personal  as  well  as  of  professional  ability, 
no  one  tracing  his  progress  through  life  could  for  a  moment 
doubt;  but,  reversing  the  witty  epigram  on  our  wittiest  mo- 
narch, he  reserved  his  wisdom  for  his  actions,  and  whilst  all 
that  he  did  showed  the  most  admirable  sense  and  judgment, 
he  never  said  a  word  that  rose  above  the  level  of  the  merest 
common-place,  vapid,  inoffensive,  dull,  and  safe. 

So  accomplished,  both  in  what  he  was  and  in  what  he  was 
not,  our  lawyer,  at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  had  been  for 


AGNES.  15 

many  years  the  oracle  of  the  country  gentlemen,  held  all 
public  offices  not  inconsistent  with  each  other,  which  their 
patronage  could  bestow,  and  in  the  shape  of  stewardships, 
trusts,  and  agencies,  managed  half  the  landed  estates  in  the 
county.  He  was  even  admitted  into  visiting  intercourse,  on 
a  footing  of  equality  very  uncommon  in  the  aristocratic  circles 
of  country  society — a  society  which  is,  for  the  most  part,  quite 
as  exclusive  as  that  of  London,  though  in  a  different  way. 
For  this  he  was  well  suited,  not  merely  by  his  own  unaffected 
manners,  high  animal  spirits,  and  nicety  of  tact,  but  by  the 
circumstances  of  his  domestic  arrangements.  After  having 
been  twice  married,  Mr.  Molesworth  found  himself,  at  nearly 
sixty,  a  second  time  a  widower. 

His  first  wife  had  been  a  homely,  frugal,  managing  woman, 
whose  few  hundred  pounds  and  her  saving  habits  had,  at  that 
period  of  his  life,  for  they  were  early  united,  conduced  in 
their  several  ways  to  enrich  and  benefit  her  equally  thrifty 
but  far  more  aspiring  husband.    She  never  had  a  child  ;  and, 
after  doing  him  all  possible  good  in  her  lifetime,  was  so  kind 
as  to  die  just  as  his  interest  and  his  ambition  required  more 
liberal  housekeeping  and  higher  connection,  each  of  which, 
as  he  well  knew,  would  repay  its  cost.    For  connection,  ac- 
cordingly, he  married,  choosing  the  elegant  though  portionless 
sister  of  a  poor  baronet,  by  whom  he  had  two  daughters,  at 
intervals  of  seven  years ;  the  eldest  being  just  of  sufficient 
age  to  succeed  her  mother  as  mistress  of  the  family,  when 
she  had  the  irreparable  misfortune  to  lose  the  earliest,  the 
tenderest,  and  the    most   inestimable   friend  that  a   young 
woman  can  have.     Very  precious  was  the  memory  of  her 
dear  mother  to  Agnes  Molesworth!    Although  six  years  had 
passed  between  her  death  and  the  period  at  which  our  little 
story  begins,  the  affectionate  daughter  had  never  ceased  to 
lament  her  loss. 

It  was  to  his  charming  daughters  that  Mr.  Molesworth's 
pleasant  house  owed  its  chief  attraction.     Conscious  of  his 


16  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

own  deficient  education,  no  pains  or  money  had  been  spared 
in  accomplishing  them  to  the  utmost  height  of  fashion. 

The  least  accomplished  was,  however,  as  not  unfrequently 
happens,  by  far  the  most  striking  ;  and  many  a  high-born  and 
wealthy  client,  disposed  to  put  himself  thoroughly  at  ease  at 
his  solicitor's  table,  and  not  at  all  shaken  in  his  purpose  by 
the  sight  of  the  pretty  Jessy, — a  short,  light,  airy  girl,  with 
a  bright  sparkling  countenance,  all  lilies  and  roses,  and 
dimples  and  smiles,  sitting,  exquisitely  dressed,  in  an  elegant 
morning  room,  with  her  guitar  in  her  lap,  her  harp  at  her 
side,  and  her  drawing  table  before  her, — has  suddenly  felt 
himself  awed  into  his  best  and  most  respectful  breeding, 
when  introduced  to  her  retiring  but  self-possessed  elder  sister, 
dressed  with  an  almost  matronly  simplicity,  and  evidently  full 
not  of  her  own  airs  and  graces,  but  of  the  modest  and  serious 
courtesy  which  beseemed  her  station  as  the  youthful  mistress 
of  the  house. 

Dignity,  a  mild  and  gentle  but  still  a  most  striking  dignity, 
was  the  prime  characteristic  of  Agnes  Molesworth  in  look  and 
in  mind.  Her  beauty  was  the  beauty  of  sculpture,  as  con- 
tradistinguished from  that  of  painting;  depending  mainly  on 
form  and  expression,  and  little  on  color.  There  could  hardly 
be  a  stronger  contrast  than  existed  between  the  marble  purity 
of  her  finely-grained  complexion,  the  softness  of  her  deep 
gray  eye,  the  calm  composure  of  her  exquisitely  moulded 
features,  and  the  rosy  cheeks,  the  brilliant  glances,  and  the 
playful  animation  of  Jessy.  In  a  word,  Jessy  was  a  pretty 
girl,  and  Agnes  was  a  beautiful  woman.  Of  these  several 
facts  both  sisters  were  of  course  perfectly  aware ;  Jessy,  be- 
cause everybody  told  her  so,  and  she  must  have  been  deaf  to 
have  escaped  the  knowledge;  Agnes,  from  some  process 
equally  certain,  but  less  direct ;  for  few  would  have  ventured 
to  take  the  liberty  of  addressing  a  personal  compliment  to 
one  evidently  too  proud  to  find  pleasure  in  anything  so  nearly 
resembling  flattery  as  praise. 


AGNES.  17 

Few,  excepting  her  looking-glass  and  her  father,  had  ever 
told  Agnes  that  she  was  handsome,  and  yet  she  was  as  conscious 
of  her  surpassing  beauty  as  Jessy  of  her  sparkling  prettiness ; 
and,  perhaps,  as  a  mere  question  of  appearance  and  becom- 
ingness,  there  might  have  been  as  much  coquetry  in  the 
severe  simplicity  of  attire  and  of  manner  which  distinguished 
one  sister,  as  in  the  elaborate  adornment  and  innocent  show- 
ing-off  of  the  other.     There  was,  however,  between  them 
exactly  such  a  real  and  internal  difference  of  taste  and  of 
character  as  the  outward  show  served  to  indicate.    Both  were 
true,  gentle,  good,  and  kind;  but  the  elder  was  as  much 
loftier  in  mind  as  in  stature,  was  full  of  high  pursuit  and 
noble  purpose ;  had  abandoned  drawing,  from  feeling  herself 
dissatisfied  with  her  own  performances,  as  compared  with 
the  works  of  real  artists  ;  reserved  her  musical  talent  entirely 
for  her  domestic  circle,  because  she  put  too  much  of  soul  into 
that  delicious  art  to  make  it  a  mere  amusement;  and  was 
only  saved  from  becoming  a  poetess,  by  her  almost  exclusive 
devotion   to   the  very  great   in  poetry— to  Wordsworth,  to 
Milton,  and  to  Shakspeare.     These  tastes  she  very  wisely 
kept  to  herself;  but  they  gave  a  higher  and  firmer  tone  to  her 
character  and  manners  ;  and  more  than  one  peer,  when  seated 
at  Mr.  Molesworth's  hospitable  table,  has  thought  with  him- 
self how  well  his  beautiful  daughter  would  become  a  coronet. 
Marriage,  however,  seemed  little  in  her  thoughts.     Once 
or  twice,  indeed,  her  kind  father  had  pressed  on  her  the  bril- 
liant establishments  that  had  offered,— but  her  sweet  ques- 
tions, "Are  you  tired  of  me?   Do  you  wish  me  away?"  had 
always  gone  straight  to  his  heart,  and  had  put  aside  for  the 
moment  the  ambition  of  his  nature  even  for  this  his  favorite 

child. 

Of  Jessy,  with  all  her  youthful  attraction,  he  had  always 
been  less  proud,  perhaps,  less  fond.  Besides,  her  destiny  he 
had  long  in  his  own  mind  considered  as  decided.  Charles 
Woodford,  a  poor  relation,  brought  up  by  his  kindness,  and 


18  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

recently  returned  into  his  family  from  a  great  office  in  London, 
was  the  person  on  whom  he  had  long  ago  fixed  for  the  hus- 
band of  his  youngest  daughter,  and  for  the  immediate  partner 
and  eventual  successor  to  his  great  and  flourishing  business — 
a  choice  that  seemed  fully  justified  by  the  excellent  conduct 
and  remarkable  talents  of  his  orphan  cousin,  and  by  the 
apparently  good  understanding  and  mutual  affection  that 
subsisted  between  the  young  people. 

This  arrangement  was  the  more  agreeable  to  him,  as,  pro- 
viding munificently  for  Jessy,  it  allowed  him  the  privilege  of 
making,  as  in  lawyer-phrase  he  used  to  boast,  "  an  elder  son" 
of  Agnes,  who  would,  by  this  marriage  of  her  youngest  sister, 
become  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  of  the  county.  He  had 
even  in  his  own  mind,  elected  her  future  spouse,  in  the  person 
of  a  young  baronet  who  had  lately  been  much  at  the  house, 
and  in  favor  of  whose  expected  addresses  (for  the  proposal 
.  had  not  yet  been  made — the  gentleman  had  gone  no  further 
than  attentions),  he  had  determined  to  exert  the  paternal  au- 
thority which  had  so  long  lain  dormant. 

But  in  the  affairs  of  love,  as  of  all  others,  man  is  born  to 
disappointment.  " Uhomme  propose,  et  Dieu  dispose,"  is 
never  truer  than  in  the  great  matter  of  matrimony.  So  found 
poor  Mr.  Molesworth,  who — Jessy  having  arrived  at  the  age 
of  eighteen,  and  Charles  at  that  of  two-and-twenty — offered 
his  pretty  daughter  and  the  lucrative  partnership  to  his  penny- 
less  relation,  and  was  petrified  with  astonishment  and  indig- 
nation to  find  the  connection  very  respectfully  but  very  firmly 
declined.  The  young  man  wTas  very  much  distressed  and 
agitated;  "he  had  the  highest  respect  for  Miss  Jessy ;  but  he 
could  not  marry  her — he  loved  another !"  And  then  he  poured 
forth  a  confidence  as  unexpected  as  it  was  undesired  by  his 
incensed  patron,  who  left  him  in  undiminished  wrath  and 
increased  perplexity. 

This  interview  had  taken  place  immediately  after  break- 
fast ;  and  when  the  conference  was  ended,  the  provoked  father 


AGNES.  19 

sought  his  daughters,  who,  happily  unconscious  of  all  that 
had  occurred,  were  amusing  themselves  in  their  splendid 
conservatory — a  scene  always  as  becoming  as  it  is  agreeable 
to  youth  and  beauty.  Jessy  was  flitting  about  like  a  butterfly 
amongst  the  fragrant  orange  trees  and  the  bright  geraniums ; 
Agnes  standing  under  a  superb  fuchsia  that  hung  over  a  large 
marble  basin,  her  form  and  attitude,  her  white  dress,  and  the 
classical  arrangement  of  her  dark  hair,  giving  her  the  look  of 
some  nymph  or  naiad,  a  rare  relic  of  Grecian  art.  Jessy  was 
prattling  gayly,  as  she  wandered  about,  of  a  concert  which 
they  had  attended  the  evening  before  at  the  county  town : 

"I  hate  concerts!"  said  the  pretty  little  flirt.  "To  sit 
bolt  upright  on  a  hard  bench  for  four  hours,  between  the 
same  four  people,  without  the  possibility  of  moving,  or  of 
speaking  to  anybody,  or  of  anybody's  getting  to  us!  Oh! 
how  tiresome  it  is!" 

"  I  saw  Sir  Edmund  trying  to  slide  through  the  crowd  to 
reach  you,"  said  Agnes,  a  little  archly  :  "his  presence  would, 
perhaps,  have  mitigated  the  evil.  But  the  barricade  was  too 
complete ;  he  was  forced  to  retreat,  without  accomplishing 
his  object." 

"Yes,  I  assure  you,  he  thought  it  very  tiresome;  he  told 
me  so  when  we  were  coming  out.  And  then  the  music!" 
pursued  Jessy ;  "  the  noise  that  they  call  music  !  Sir  Edmund 
says  that  he  likes  no  music  except  my  guitar,  or  a  flute  on 
the  water;  and  I  like  none  except  your  playing  on  the  organ, 
and  singing  Handel  on  a  Sunday  evening,  or  Charles  Wood- 
ford's reading  Milton  and  bits  of  Hamlet." 

"  Do  you  call  that  music?"  asked  Agnes,  laughing.  "And 
yet,"  continued  she,  "it  is  most  truly  so,  with  his  rich  Pasta- 
like voice,  and  his  fine  sense  of  sound ;  and  to  you,  who  do 
not  greatly  love  poetry  for  its  own  sake,  it  is  doubtless  a 
pleasure  much  resembling  in  kind  that  of  hearing  the  most 
thrilling  of  melodies  on  the  noblest  of  instruments.  I  myself 
have  felt  such  a  gratification  in  hearing  that  voice  recite  the 


20  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

verses  of  Homer  or  of  Sophocles   in   the   original  Greek. 
Charles  Woodford's  reading  is  music." 

"It  is  a  music  which  neither  of  you  is  likely  to  hear 
again,"  interrupted  Mr.  Molesworth,  advancing  suddenly 
towards  them;  "for  he  has  been  ungrateful,  and  I  have  dis- 
carded him." 

Agnes  stood  as  if  petrified:    "Ungrateful!  oh,  father!" 
"You  can't  have  discarded  him,  to  be  sure,  papa,"  said 
Jessy,  always  good-natured;  "poor  Charles!  what  can  he 
have  done?" 

"Refused  your  hand,  child,"  said  the  angry  parent;  "re- 
fused to  be  my  partner  and  son-in-law,  and  fallen  in  love 
with  another  lady!    What  have  you  to  say  for  him  now  ?" 

"Why  really,  papa,"  replied  Jessy,  "I'm  much  more 
obliged  to  him  for  refusing  my  hand  than  to  you  for  offering 
it.  I  like  Charles  very  well  for  a  cousin,  but  I  should  not 
like  such  a  husband  at  all ;  so  that  if  this  refusal  be  the  worst 
that  has  happened,  there's  no  great  harm  done."  And  off 
the  gipsy  ran;  declaring  that  "  she  must  put  on  her  habit,  for 
she  had  promised  to  ride  with  Sir  Edmund  and  his  sister,  and 
expected  them  every  minute." 

The  father  and  his  favorite  daughter  remained  in  the  con- 
servatory. 

"That  heart  is  untouched,  however,"  said  Mr.  Molesworth, 
looking  after  her  with  a  smile. 

"Untouched  by  Charles  Woodford,  undoubtedly,"  replied 
Agnes,  "but  has  he  really  refused  my  sister?" 

"Absolutely." 

"And  does  he  love  another?" 

"He  says  so,  and  I  believe  him." 

"Is  he  loved  again  ?" 

"That  he  did  not  say." 

"Did  he  tell  you  the  name  of  the  lady?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  her?" 


AGNES.  21 

"Yes." 

"Is  she  worthy  of  him  ?" 

"Most  worthy." 

"Has  he  any  hope  of  gaining  her  affections?  Oh!  he 
must!  he  must!    What  woman  could  refuse  him?" 

"He  is  determined  not  to  try.  The  lady  whom  he  loves  is 
above  him  in  every  way ;  and  much  as  he  has  counteracted 
my  wishes,  it  is  an  honorable  part  of  Charles  Woodford's  con- 
duct, that  he  intends  to  leave  his  affection  unsuspected  by  its 
object." 

Here  ensued  a  short  pause  in  the  dialogue,  during  which 
Agnes  appeared  trying  to  occupy  herself  with  collecting  the 
blossoms  of  a  Cape  jasmine  and  watering  a  favorite  gera- 
nium; but  it  would  not  do:  the  subject  was  at  her  heart,  and 
she  could  not  force  her  mind  to  indifferent  occupations.  She 
returned  to  her  father,  who  had  been  anxiously  watching  her 
motions  and  the  varying  expression  of  her  countenance,  and 
resumed  the  conversation. 

"  Father !  perhaps  it  is  hardly  maidenly  to  avow  so  much, 
but  although  you  have  never  in  set  words  told  me  your  inten- 
tions, I  have  yet  seen  and  known,  I  can  hardly  tell  how,  all 
that  your  too  kind  partiality  towards  me  has  designed  for  your 
children.  You  have  mistaken  me,  dearest  father,  doubly 
mistaken  me ;  first,  in  thinking  me  fit  to  fill  a  splendid  place 
in  society;  next,  in  imagining  that  I  desired  such  splendor. 
You  meant  to  give  Jessy  and  the  lucrative  partnership  to 
Charles  Woodford,  and  designed  me  and  your  large  posses- 
sions to  our  wealthy  and  titled  neighbor.  And  with  some 
little  change  of  persons,  these  arrangements  may  still  for  the 
most  part  hold  good.  Sir  Edmund  may  still  be  your  son-in- 
law  and  your  heir,  for  he  loves  Jessy,  and  Jessy  loves  him. 
Charles  Woodford  may  still  be  your  partner  and  your  adopted 
son,  for  nothing  has  chanced  that  need  diminish  your  affection 
or  his  merit.  Marry  him  to  the  woman  he  loves.  She  must 
be  ambitious,  indeed,  if  she  be  not  content  with  such  a  destiny. 


22  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

And  let  me  live  on  with  you,  dear  father,  single  and  unwed- 
ded,  with  no  thought  but  to  contribute  to  your  comfort,  to 
cheer  and  brighten  your  declining  years.  Do  not  let  your 
too  great  fondness  for  me  stand  in  the  way  of  their  happiness! 
Make  me  not  so  odious  to  them  and  to  myself,  dear  father! 
Let  me  live  always  with  you,  and  for  you — always  your  own 
poor  Agnes!"  And,  blushing  at  the  earnestness  with  which 
she  had  spoken,  she  bent  her  head  over  the  marble  basin, 
whose  waters  reflected  the  fair  image,  as  if  she  had  really 
been  the  Grecian  statue  to  wThich,  whilst  he  listened,  her  fond 
father's  fancy  had  compared  her:  "Let  me  live  single  with 
you,  and  marry  Charles  to  the  woman  whom  he  loves." 

"Have  you  heard  the  name  of  the  lady  in  question?  Have 
you  formed  any  guess  who  she  may  be?" 

"Not  the.  slightest.  I  imagined  from  what  you  said  that 
she  was  a  stranger  to  me.     Have  I  ever  seen  her?" 

"You  may  see  her — at  least  you  may  see  her  reflection  in 
the  water,  at  this  very  moment;  for  he  has  had  the  infinite 
presumption,  the  admirable  good  taste,  to  fall  in  love  with 
his  cousin  Agnes!" 

"Father!" 

"And  now,  mine  own  sweetest!  do  you  still  wish  to  live 
single  with  me?" 

"Oh,  father!  father!" 

"  Or  do  you  desire  that  I  should  marry  Charles  to  the  woman 
of  his  heart?" 

"Father!  dear  father!" 

"Choose,  my  Agnes!  It  shall  be  as  you  command.  Speak 
freely.     Do  not  cling  so  around  me,  but  speak!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  father !  Cannot  we  all  live  together?  I  can- 
not leave  you.  But  poor  Charles — surely,  father,  we  may  all 
live  together." 

And  so  it  was  settled ;  and  a  very  few  months  proved  that 
love  had  contrived  better  for  Mr.  Molesworth  than  he  had 
done  for  himself.     Jessy,  with  her  prettiness,  and  her  title, 


SONNET.  23 

and  her  fopperies,  was  the  very  thing  to  be  vain  of — the  very 
thing  to  visit  for  a  day; — but  Agnes,  and  the  cousin  whose 
noble  character  and  splendid  talents  so  well  deserved  her, 
made  the  pride  and  happiness  of  his  home. 


SONNET. 

Oh,  lady,  will  it  break  the  brittle  spell 

That  lingers  round  the  scene  where  first  we  met, 

If  he  whose  heart  is  with  his  treasure  set, 

Cling  to  the  passionate  grief  he  cannot  quell, 

Feeling  he  loves  "  not  wisely  but  too  well?" — 

Oh!  hearts  grow  old  by  feelings,  not  by  years! 

And  are  not  fairest  hopes  bedewed  by  tears 

Till  these  congeal  within  their  crystal  cell? 

Lady,  forgive  me!  and  if  these  strange  words 

Strike  vainly  upon  long,  long  silent  chords, 

Whose  echoes  die  in  vacancy — forget, 

Or  think  of  me  as  we  had  never  met ! — 

The  wounded  hart  must  to  the  forest  flee, 

And  fall  without  a  witness  save  the  greenwood  tree ! 


THE  COUNTESS  LAMBERT!. 


BY    MART    HOWITT. 


She  still  was  young;  but  guilt  and  tears 
On  her  had  done  the  work  of  years : 
'Twas  in  a  house  of  penitence 

She  dwelt ;  and,  saving  unto  one, 
A  sorrowing  woman  meek  and  kind, 

Words  spake  she  unto  none. 

And  'twas  about  the  close  of  May, 
When  they  two  sate  from  all  apart, 

In  the  warm  light  of  parting  day, 

That  she  unsealed  her  burdened  heart. 

"  They  married  me  when  I  was  young, 

A  very  child  in  years ; 
They  married  me  at  the  dagger's  point, 

Amid  my  prayers  and  tears. 

"  To  Count  Lamberti  I  was  wed — 
He  to  the  Pope  was  brother — 

They  made  me  swear  my  faith  to  him 
The  while  I  loved  another! 

Ay,  while  I  loved  to  such  excess, 

My  love  than  madness  scarce  was  less! 


THE  COUNTESS  LAMBERTI.  25 

"I  would  have  died  for  him — and  so 

He  would  have  done  for  me! 
Lamberti's  years  were  thrice  mine  own, 

A  proud,  cold  man  was  he. 

"His  brow  was  scarred  with  many  wounds, 

His  eye  was  stern  and  grave, 
He  was  a  soldier  from  his  youth, 

And  all  confessed  him  brave — 
He'd  been  in  many  foreign  lands, 

And  'mong  the  Moors  a  slave. 

"I  thought  of  him  like  Charlemagne, 

Or  any  knight  of  old : 
When  I  was  a  babe  upon  the  knee 

His  deeds  to  me  they  told. 

"I  knew  the  songs  they  made  of  him ; 

I  sung  them  when  a  child : 
Giuseppe  sung  them,  too,  with  me — 

He  loved  his  perils  wild. 

"I  tell  thee,  he  was  stern  and  gray, 

His  years  were  thrice  mine  own! 
That  I  was  to  Giuseppe  pledged 

To  all  my  kin  was  known. 

"My  heart  was  to  Giuseppe  vowed; 

Love  was  our  childhood's  lot; 
I  loved  him  ever — never  knew 

The  time  I  loved  him  not! 

"He  was  an  orphan,  and  the  last 
Of  an  old  line  of  pride; 


3 


26  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

My  father  took  him  for  his  son — 
He  was  unto  our  house  allied. 

"And  he  within  our  house  was  bred, 
From  the  same  books  in  youth  we  read, 
Our  teachers  were  the  same — and  he 
Was  as  a  brother  unto  me ; 

A  brother! — no,  I  never  knew 
How  warm  a  brother's  love  might  be, 

But  dearer  every  year  he  grew! 

"  Love  was  our  earliest  only  life : 
Twin  forms  that  had  one  heart 
Were  we — and  for  each  other  lived 
.  And  never  thought  to  part! 

"My  father  had  him  trained  for  war ; 

He  went  to  Naples,  where  he  fought : 
And  then  the  Count  Lamberti  came, 

And  my  hand  from  my  father  sought. 

" He  wooed  me  not;  I  did  not  know 
Why  he  was  ever  at  my  side — 

Why,  when  we  rode  unto  the  chase, 
My  father  bade  me  with  him  ride. 

"No,  no!  and  when  Lamberti  spoke 
Of  love,  I  misbelieving  heard — 

And  strangely  gazed  into  his  face, 
Appalled  at  every  word. 

"It  seemed  to  me  as  if  there  fell 
From  some  old  saint  a  tone  of  hell ; 
As  if  the  hero-heart  of  pride 
Giusep'  and  I  had  sanctified 


THE    COUNTESS    LAMBERTI.  27 

Among  the  heroes  of  old  time, 
Before  me  blackened  stood  with  crime! 

"  That  night  my  father  sought  my  room, 
And  furious  betwixt  rage  and  pride, 

He  bade  me  on  an  early  day 
Prepare  to  be  Lamberti's  bride. 

"I  thought  my  father,  too,  was  mad — 

Yet  silently  I  heard  him  speak; 
I  had  no  power  for  word  or  sign, 

But  the  hot  blood  forsook  my  cheek; 

"And  my  heart  beat  with  desperate  pain, 

The  sting  of  rage  was  at  its  core, 
There  was  a  tumult  in  my  brain, 

And  I  fell  senseless  to  the  floor. 

"At  length  upon  my  knees  I  prayed 

My  father  to  regard  the  vow 
Which  to  Giuseppe  I  had  made — 

Oh  God!  his  furious  brow, 
His  curling  lip  of  sneering  scorn, 

Like  fiends  they  haunt  me  now! 

"Ay,  spite  my  vows  they  made  me  wed, 

Young  as  I  was  in  years — 
At  the  dagger's  point  they  married  me 

Amid  my  prayers  and  tears! 

—  "Our  palace  was  at  Tivoli, 

An  ancient  place  of  Roman  pride, 
Girt  round  with  a  sepulchral  wood, 
Wherein  a  ruined  temple  stood ; 

And  there,  whilst  I  was  yet  a  bride, 

I  saw  Giuseppe  at  my  side ! 


28  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

"My  own  Giuseppe! — he  had  come 
From  Naples  with  a  noble  train — 

He  came  to  woo  me  and  to  wed! — 
Would  God  we  ne'er  had  met  again ! 

"Lamberti's  speech  still  harsher  grew, 
And  darker  still  his  spirit's  gloom ; 

And  with  a  stern  and  fierce  command 
He  hurried  me  to  Rome. 

— "I  had  a  dream — three  times  it  came — 
I  saw,  as  plainly  as  by  day, 

A  horrid  thing — the  bloody  place 
Where  young  Giuseppe  lay. 

"  I  saw  them  in  their  ancient  wood — 
I  heard  him  wildly  call  on  God — 

I  saw  him  left  alone — alone 
Upon  the  bloody  sod ! 

"  I  knew  the  murderers,  they  were  two — 
I  saw  them  with  my  sleeping  eye, 

And  yet  I  knew  them  voice  and  limb — 

I  saw  them  plainly  murder  him, 
In  the  old  wood  at  Tivoli ! — 

Three  times  the  dream  was  sent  to  me, 
It  could  not  be  a  lie! 

"  I  knew  it  could  not  be  a  lie — 

I  knew  his  precious  blood  was  spilt — 

I  saw  the  murderer,  day  by  day, 
Dwell  calmly  in  his  guilt! 

"No  wonder  that  a  frenzy  came! — 
At  midnight  from  my  bed  I  leapt, 


THE  COUNTESS  LAMBERTI.  29 

I  snatched  a  dagger  in  my  rage — 
I  stabbed  him  as  he  slept ! 

"I  say  I  stabbed  him  as  he  slept ! — 

It  was  a  horrid  deed  of  blood ; 
But  then  I  knew  that  he  had  slain 

Giuseppe  in  the  wood  ! 

"I  told  my  father  of  my  dream, 
I  watched  him  every  word  I  spake — 

He  tried  to  laugh  my  dream  to  scorn, 
And  yet  I  saw  his  body  quake. 

"They  fetched  Giuseppe  from  the  wood, 

And  a  great  funeral  feast  they  had  ; 
They  buried  Count  Lamberti  too, 

And  said  that  I  was  mad. 

"  I  was  not  mad — and  yet  I  bore 

A  curse  that  was  not  less; 
And  many,  many  years  went  on 

Of  gloomy  wretchedness. 

"  I  saw  my  father  how  he  grew 

An  old  man  ere  his  prime; 
I  knew  the  penance-pain  he  bore 

For  that  accursed  crime. 

"I,  too — there  is  a  weight  of  sin 

Upon  my  soul — it  will  not  hence! — 
'Tis  therefore  that  my  life  is  given 

To  one  long  penitence!" 


THE  BOOR  OF  THE  BROCKEN. 


BY  MISS  JEWSBCRT. 


However  knowledge  may  have  dispersed  superstition,  so 

that  in  these,  our  days,  the  Hartz  country  itself  is  considered 

as  free  from  witches  and  warlocks  as  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire, 

it  is  sufficient  for  my  purpose  that  a  contrary  opinion  was 

once  held,  and  that  Etto  the  boor  was  bom  during  its  reign. 

The  blocks  of  granite,  scattered  on  the  summit  of  the  Brocken, 

were  then  veritably  esteemed  the  altar  and  pulpit  of  sorcerers; 

the  spring  of  clear  water  was  believed  to  be,  what  it  was 

called,  the  magic  fountain ;  and  even  the  beautiful  anemone 

that  grew  thereabouts  was  placed  under  a  ban,  and  called 

the  sorcerer's  flower.    Etto's  father  lived  in  an  ancient  wirth- 

shaus  on  the  Brocken,  which  offered  to  the   chance  traveler 

scanty  accommodation  in  the  shape  of  bed,  board,  and  kirsch- 

wasser,  but  the  most  voluble  of  guides  in  his  own  person, 

and  in  the  person  of  his  wife  the  most  accomplished  narrator 

of  legends  that  ever  made  an  auditor's  hair  stand  on  end. 

Accompanying  his  father  in  his  expeditions  as  guide,  hunting 

when  not  so  employed,  and  when  not  hunting,  dreaming  and 

droning  over  legends  wilder  even  than  the  country  that  gave 

rise  to  them,  Etto  grew  up  to  manhood,  but  not  by  any  means 

the  brave  romantic  vagabond  that  might  have  been  expected. 

His  prominent  characteristic  was  a  mean,  lazy,  wishing-cap 

kind  of  ambition,  that  led  him  to  despise  the  lot  to  which  he 

was  born ;  made  him  long  to  eat  dainties,  sleep  softly,  dress 


THE    BOOR   OF   THE   BROCKEN.  31 

sumptuously,  and  escape,  in  a  word,  the  boor's  life.     The 
boor's  mind  never  troubled  him;    that  he  did  not  desire 
changed.    Frequent  visits  to  the  neighboring  town  of  Goslar, 
and  an  occasional  opportunity  of  tasting  its  seven  different 
kinds  of  beer,  invariably  made  Etto  return  home  more  dis- 
contented than  he  left  it.     After  gazing  on  the  emperor's 
state  chair,  preserved  in  the  cathedral  of  Goslar,  and  on  the 
imperial  portraits  that  adorned  the  windows  of  that  structure, 
he  would  soliloquize  much  in  the  following  manner:— ."Ah! 
it  was  worth  their  while  to  be  men! — but  what  is  life  to  a 
poor  wretch  like  myself?  only  a  dull  something  to  be  had 
and  lost !    It  were  brave  sport  to  be  a  king,  and  go  a-hunting 
for  pleasure;  men,  horses,  and  even  dogs  owning  me  as  lord; 
then  to  have  the  peasants  bowing  and  blessing  every  time  I 
turned  my  head,  and  even  the  Count  Winplingerstrasse  proud 
of  my  presence  in  his  castle : — the  dais-table  covered  with  all 
manner  of  dainties,  my  crown  and  sceptre  laid  beside  me,  a 
canopy  over  my  head,  drums  and  trumpets  sounding  at  every 
mouthful,  and  ever  and  anon  the  count  saying  to  me  with  cap 
in  hand — '  Will  your  imperial  highness  try  another  slice  of 
the  venison  ?  or  will  your  princely  majesty  honor  the  wine  by 
taking  another  goblet?  or  may  it  please  your  gracious  mighti- 
ness to  condescend  to  a  flagon  of  ale?' — Then  should  I,  with 
a  gracious  wave  of  my  hand,  say — '  Noble  vassal !    I  have 
done  exceedingly  well,  make  yourself  welcome  to  what  re- 
mains!'    Ah,  if  anything  short  of  selling  myself  to  the  evil 
one,  short  of   spending  May-day  night  with  Sir  Urian  or 
Mother  Baubo,  would  make  a  great  man  of  me — Saint  Mar- 
tin, Saint  Maximin,  St.   Hildebrand  — what  am  I  talking 

aD0Ut" and  here  Etto  would  cross  himself  (but  more  from 

cowardice  than  Christianity)  to  prevent  the  possible  appear- 
ance of  any  member  of  the  witch  and  wizard  club.  Never- 
theless, the  half-uttered  wish  was  only  driven  from  the  lip  to 
the  heart,  if  it  were  but  possible,  without  sin  and  scathe,  to 


32  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

obtain  supernatural  aid  ;  for  without  it,  small  chance  did  there 
appear  of  his  becoming  other  than  Etto  the  boor. 

The  combined  workings  of  discontent  and  envy  made  his 
life  like  the  bread  he  ate — somewhat  black  and  bitter;  more 
especially  when  chance  threw  him  in  the  way  of  the  great 
man  of  the  neighborhood,  Count  Winplingerstrasse,  who 
scowled  like  a  dragon,  inhabited  a  castle  that  looked  like  a 
prison,  and  occasionally  hung  a  vassal  to  prove  his  love  of 
justice.  One  day  Etto  was  sitting  on  a  crag  beside  his 
father's  door,  more  discontented  than  usual,  for  the  puissant 
Count  of  Winplingerstrasse  had  that  morning  speared  his 
dog,  for  having  presumed  to  take  by  the  ear  a  boar  which  he, 
the  said  Count,  had  intended  to  kill  with  his  own  unassisted 
hand.  Whilst  Etto  sat  musing  on  the  chance  that  made  one 
man  rich  and  another  poor,  he  was  roused  from  his  reverie 
by  observing  that  an  individual  stood  beside  him,  who  did 
not  stand  there  the  instant  before.  Etto  was  therefore  reduced 
to  the  sagacious  conclusion,  that  the  intruder  had  either 
dropped  from  the  clouds,  or  grown  out  of  the  earth.  The 
dress  of  the  stranger  puzzled  him  also,  for  it  was  framed  ac- 
cording to  divers  fashions ;  the  hat  being  English,  the  ruff 
Flemish,  the  doublet  and  hose  German,  whilst  the  mantle 
had  been  cut  in  the  country  of  long  cloaks,  though  which  that 
was  I  am  unable  to  say  with  antiquarian  certainty.  It  was 
equally  impossible,  from  hisiace,  to  assign  him  a  birth-place, 
for  he  had  a  look  of  all  nations.  In  spite,  however,  of  his 
old  garb  and  features,  Etto  felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  a 
much  greater  personage  than  Count  Winplingerstrasse,  and 
he  rose  and  made  a  suitable  reverence. 

"What  makes  you  look  so   sulky,  friend?"    asked  the 
stranger. 

"Please  your  unknown  worship,  I'm  a  poor  man,"  said 
Etto. 

"  I  always  understood  that  content  dwelt  in  a  cottage," 
said  the  odd-looking  man. 


THE    BOOR    OF    THE    BROCKEN.  33 

"Please  your  noble  worship,"  replied  Etto,  "I  only  live  in 
a  wood  hut,  where  the  wind  whistles  in  at  the  window,  and 
the  rain  pours  down  the  chimney.  I  always  understood  that 
content  dwelt  in  a  castle." 

"I  will  make  a  great  man  of  you,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
a  remarkably  grim  smile. 

"And  without  any  unlawful  conditions?"  inquired  Etto, 
bowing  within  an  inch  of  the  ground. 

"  Without  any  other  condition  than  that  of  continuing  what 
you  are,  in  mind  and  spirit.     Now,  what  great  man  will  you 

be?" 

"  Could  your  very  gracious  reverend  highness  contrive  to 
make  me  Count  Winplingerstrasse  ?"  said  Etto,  his  eyes  ready 
to  fall  out  of  his  head  with  amazement. 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  rejoined  the  stranger,  tak- 
ing a  pinch  of  snuff  with  extraordinary  coolness. 

Etto  could  hardly  refrain  from  shouting  his  rapture  to  the 
hills. — "And  will  your  imperial  highness  change  the  count 
into  me  ?— make  him  just  as  poor  and  miserable  as  I  was  five 
minutes  ago?" 

"  Thou  art  a  malicious  dog ;  but  that  also  will  I  do.  The 
count  has  a  few  sins  to  atone  for  as  well  as  thyself— so  then, 
presto!— look  yonder— there  he  comes,  Etto  the  boor  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,— and  there  art  thou,  Count  Winplinger- 
strasse.—Ha,  ha!  most  mortal  fool,  adieu!— a  week  hence, 

and " 

"And  what?"  inquired  Etto— but  the  stranger  was  gone 
—gone  as  he  had  arrived,  though  the  proof  of  his  appearance 
remained  behind ;  for  Etto  now  held  up  his  head,  wore  a 
brave  hunting  suit,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  been  born  what 
he  seemed— Count  Winplingerstrasse.  Without  more  delay 
he  took  the  road  to  the  castle,  where  he  was  received  with  all 
imaginable  deference,  the  servants  conceiving  him  to  be  the 
identical  master  who  sallied  from  it  in  the  morning.  The 
only  observable  difference  was,  that  he  did  not  bear  himself 


34  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

near  so  much  like  a  dragon,  and  that  he  was  carried  to  rest 
much  more  intoxicated  than  was  esteemed  usual.  The  next 
day,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  passed  off  gloriously :  hunt- 
ing, feasting  and  receiving  homage,  diversified  the  time  most 
charmingly;  and  Etto  was  never  weary  of  congratulating 
himself  on  his  change  of  rank.  On  the  fourth  morning  he 
was  doomed  to  understand  the  cares  as  well  as  the  pleasures 
of  greatness.  He  had  just  arranged  the  sports  for  the  day, 
and  with  hound  and  horn,  bow,  baldric,  and  spear,  hunts- 
man and  woodman,  horse  and  foot,  was  on  the  point  of  leav- 
ing the  court-yard  for  the  chase,  when  a  messenger  made  his 
appearance,  reined  up  his  horse,  and,  without  ceremony,  pre- 
sented a  letter  on  the  point  of  his  sword. 

"Fetch  Father  Zick  here,"  said  Etto.  Counts  were  not 
expected  to-read  in  those  days;  therefore  no  disgrace  attached 
to  Etto  on  the  score  of  ignorance.  Father  Zick  made  his 
appearance,  deciphered  and  read  the  letter.  It  contained 
remonstrances,  demands,  charges  and  threats,  on  the  part  of 
the  noble  Baron  Seidensticker;  spoke  of  laying  waste  the 
domain  of  Winplingerstrasse,  in  default  of  instant  redress  for 
all  and  sundry  offences  committed  by  the  count  and  his  vas- 
sals during  the  last  few  weeks. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  said'Etto;  for  his  countship's 
consciousness  only  went  back  to  the  moment  of  his  receiving 
the  dignity. 

The  attendants  answered  by  bewildered  looks,  for  they 
could  only  account  for  their  lord's  ignorance  of  the  matter  in 
hand  from  his  having  become  suddenly  crazed. 

"I  wait  your  answer,  count,"  said  the  messenger;  "am 
I  to  tell  my  noble  lord  that  the  butts  of  wine,  the  vests,  armor, 
and  household  gear,  stolen  by  your  lordship's  followers  when 
on  their  way  to  my  noble  lord's  castle,  shall  be  instantly 
restored,  together  with  a  full  and  suitable  apology,  and  a  pro- 
mise that  justice  shall  be  done  to  the  ringleaders  in  the  of- 
fence, and  that  furthermore " 


THE    BOOR    OF    THE    BROCKEN.  35 

Etto  obeyed  the  first  impulse  of  his  boorish  nature,  and 
raising  his  fist,  struck  the  speaker  such  a  violent  blow  on  the 
face,  that,  being  unprepared  for  its  force,  he  was  nearly 
thrown  from  his  horse.  The  messenger  did  not  wait  any 
further  answer,  but  wheeling  his  horse  round,  rode  off  home- 
wards at  no  gentle  rate. 

The  old  seneschal  now  appeared,  thridding  his  way  through 
the  throng,  puffing  and  talking  at  every  step:  "He  is  gone 
mad— mad,  of  a  surety !  Did  he  not  arrange  the  foray  him- 
self ?— and  the  wine— did  he  not  make  merry  upon  it  last 
night,  and  the  night  before,  and  the  night  before  that? — Good 
my  lord  (he  had  by  this  reached  Etto's  side),  good  my  lord, 
be  pleased  to  recollect  yourself;  and,  since  we  are  found  out, 
let  justice  take  its  course. — Ah!  it  was  a  pity  we  meddled 
with  Seidensticker,  seeing  he  can  revenge  himself. — Good, 
my  lord,  let  us  even  send  the  gear  back;  I  can  fill  the  empty 
butts  with  beer  instead  of  wine — and  two  or  three  idle  varlets 
we  can  well  afford  to  hang. — Mercy  upon  us!  if  Seiden- 
sticker comes  against  us,  how  shall  we  stand  a  siege,  with  only 
half  a  score  hogs  in  salt,  two  oxen,  and  some  small  meats  for 
the  dais-table?  Good  my  lord,  have  reason,  and  we'll  have 
all  ready  in  a  trice — the  gear,  the  apologies,  and  the  varlets 
that  must  be  hanged." 

Here  each  of  the  head  domestics  put  in  a  word  of  recom- 
mendation touching  some  very  particular  rascal,  and  the 
heart  of  many  an  underling  throbbed  with  fear. 

The  seneschal  had  spoken  under  the  idea  that  he  addressed 
his  old  fiery  master,  prone  to  plunge  himself  into  broils,  and 
over-apt  to  take  charge  of  his  neighbor's  goods.  Etto  list- 
ened in  stupid  amazement,  and  in  conclusion  began  to  wish 
that  he  had  made  a  few  inquiries  before  he  jumped  so  readily 
into  the  shoes  of  Count  Winplingerstrasse. 

"Do  as  ye  list,"  said  he,  throwing  himself  from  his  horse. 
And  having  so  said,  and  so  done,  he  paced  doggedly  into  the 
castle,  leaving  his  attendants  in  great  surprise. 


36  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

"Markebrunn  has  quenched  the  firebrand,"  muttered  the 
seneschal.  "Well,  Saint  Caspar  be  praised!  we  shall  lead 
the  quieter  life.  Howsoever,  they  shall  be  a  few  flagons 
lower  before  they  travel  homewards — those  said  wine-butts 
that  are  yet  full." 

By  the  close  of  the  day,  the  pacificatory  arrangements,  as 
regarded  restitution  and  apology,  were  in  tolerable  forward- 
ness. The  selection  of  the  vassals  who  were  to  officiate  as 
culprits,  in  other  words  be  made  the  scapegoats  in  this  affair 
of  foray,  gave  both  the  seneschal  and  Father  Zick  consider- 
able trouble ;  insomuch  that  it  was  at  last  agreed,  that,  if 
before  they  reached  the  gallows,  the  rogues  could  contrive  to 
make  their  escape,  the  castle  of  Winplingerstrasse  should  not 
shut  its  gates  against  them. 

Etto,  meanwhile,  made,  according  to  his  own  apprehension, 
the  best  use  of  his  time,  by  emptying  flagon  after  flagon  of 
Seidensticker's  wine,  till,  unaccustomed  to  such  choice  liba- 
tions, he  was  soon  placed  by  sleep  beyond  the  reach  of  fear 
and  sorrow.  The  seneschal  had,  in  like  manner,  allowed 
himself  a  little  extra  indulgence  in  consideration  of  his  day's 
anxiety.  Father  Zick  kept  him  company  out  of  sheer  bene- 
volence ;  and  the  rest  of  the  household  rendered  themselves 
as  oblivious  to  the  sense  of  danger  as  their  several  degrees 
permitted. 

But  the  following  morning  brought  cool  reflection  in  the 
guise  of  two  score  men-at-arms,  accompanied  by  all  the 
known  means  of  doing  battle,  and  making  a  noise  over  it. 
The  warden  was  of  course  the  first  person  who  perceived 
their  approach,  and  having  multiplied  two  score  by  ten,  he 
posted  down  to  apprize  the  seneschal  of  the  company  at  hand. 
The  worthies  were  cabineted  together,  each  occupied  in 
forming  conjectures,  and  giving  advice,  to  which  neither 
listened,  when  the  council  was  interrupted  by  the  loud  blast 
of  a  couple  of  trumpets,  and  a  prodigious  knocking  on  the 
iron-studded  gate  of  the  castle. 


THE    BOOR   OF    THE    BROCKEN.  37 

The  seneschal  looked  out  of  a  loop-hole  window,  with  full 
as  much  fear  as  curiosity ;  nevertheless  he  demanded,  with 
a  bold  voice,  the  occasion  of  the  disturbance. 

The  messenger  of  the  preceding  day  then  rode  forward, 
and,  having  commanded  silence,  addressed  the  seneschal 
with  true  diplomatic  dignity: — "In  consequence  of  the  ori- 
ginal offence  given  by  Count  Winplingerstrasse  to  my  master, 
the  mighty  Baron  Seidensticker, — in  consideration  of  the  vio- 
lent reception  given  yesterday  to  me,  his  accredited  messen- 
ger— on  behalf  of  baronial  rights  in  general,  and  his  own 
insulted  dignity  in  particular, — and  finally,  in  the  hope  of 
thereby  restoring  peace  and  amity — the  mighty  Baron  Seiden- 
sticker does  here  defy  Count  Winplingerstrasse  to  mortal 
combat.  But  should  the  said  count  refuse  to  avail  himself 
of  this  opportunity  of  clearing  his  honor,  the  baron,  my 
master,  will  straightway  beat,  batter,  and  burn  this  castle  of 
Winplingerstrasse,  and  all  connected  therewith!" 

The  above  speech  being  finished,  the  trumpeter  sounded  a 
flourish,  which  added  greatly  to  its  effect,  and  the  seneschal 
drew  in  his  head  from  the  loop-hole  window,  declaring  that 
he  would  instantly  submit  the  alternative  to  his  master's  most 
serious  consideration.  On  turning  round,  he  found  most  of 
the  household  at  his  back;  for  they  justly  esteemed  it  a  com- 
mon cause. 

"A  very  pretty  kettle  of  fish  is  here!"  said  the  cook  and 
his  scullions  in  chorus. 

"Tra-la-la-lira-la!  we  are  like  to  be  hunted,  instead  of 
hunting,  to-day,"  suggested  the  head  ranger. 

"Honesty  is  certainly  the  best  policy,"  cried  half  a  dozen 
rapscallions  who  had  been  foremost  in  the  foray. 

"I  would  I  were  just  now  where  men  robe  in  cassocks, 
and  not  in  chain-mail,"  sighed  Father  Zick. 

"Fighting  is  not  my  vocation,  but  I  will  cheer  the  com- 
batants with  songs,"  observed  the  minstrel. 

"And  I  will  weep  for  those  who  fall,"  put  in  the  jester. 
4 


38  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

"Hold  your  several  tongues,  you  prating  blockheads!" 
said  the  seneschal,  in  a  tone  of  authority;  "our  noble  master 
will  assuredly  do  all  the  fighting  himself-  Come  with  me, 
Father  Zick;  for  we  must  disturb  his  slumbers,  which  it 
seems  these  trumpets  have  respected.  Some  of  you  knaves, 
bid  the  armorer  follow  us  with  the  count's  battle-suit,  and  bid 
the  grooms  caparison  his  horse.  Do  you,  Mr.  Minstrel,  walk 
before  me  with  a  flagon  of  wine,  and  you,  Mr.  Jester,  follow 
with  a  pasty.  Were  the  count  a  lion  he  could  not  fight  fast- 
ing." 

In  a  few  minutes  these  various  worthies  entered  the  sleep- 
ing-room, where  Etto  lay  in  as  sound  a  slumber  as  if  the  clatter 
outside  the  castle  had  been  only  so  much  silence. 

"  'After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well,' "  said  the  jester, 
from  whom  Shakspeare,  a  century  afterwards,  plagiarized  the 
idea. 

"Very  true  ;  but  his  lordship  must,  nevertheless,  awake  like 
meaner  men,"  said  the  seneschal.    "So-ho!  my  lord!" 

Etto  only  gave  an  additional  snore. 

"Humph!"  said  the  seneschal;  "it  is  a  case  of  necessity, 
and  therefore,  Mr.  Minstrel,  put  your  flagon  down,  and  pinch 
his  lordship's  leg.  Motley,  do  thou  the  same  by  its  fellow. 
Father  Zick,  shout  lustily  in  that  ear,  while  I  shout  in  this. 
Now,  then — So-ho!  my  lord!" 

By  these  combined  efforts  Etto  was  at  length  roused  to  a 
sense  of  his  situation.  What  his  feelings  were  on  the  dis- 
covery made  to  him,  the  reader,  who  is  in  the  secret,  may 
naturally  imagine.  He  will  also  comprehend  the  discomfiture 
and  amazement  which  it  exceedingly  puzzled  the  attendants 
to  account  for. 

"Will  your  lordship  be  pleased  to  break  your  fast,  and  then 
proceed  to  arm?"  said  the  seneschal. 

"I  tell  you,  I  never  engaged  in  single  combat  since  I  was 
born,"  replied  Etto. 


THE    BOOR    OF    THE    BROCKEN.  39 

"My  lord's  modesty  forgets  that  I  have  sung  his  victories 
in  half  a  hundred  ballads,"  observed  the  minstrel. 

"  I  tell  you  I  never  killed  a  man  in  my  life." 

"I  have  given  your  lordship  absolution  for  killing  at  least 
a  dozen  out  of  the  common  way,"  said  Father  Zick. 

"And  here  comes  your  lordship's  armor,"  said  the  senes- 
chal, "proof  in  every  joint;  and  also  a  newly  invented  visor 
— a  most  brave  defence,  if  your  lordship  can  but  breathe  in 
it." 

Etto's  head  began  to  swim. 

"And  Seidensticker  himself  is  just  arrived,"  cried  the 
armorer,  "and  with  him  another  score  of  rogues  in  steel.  As 
pretty  a  fellow  that  baron  as  ever  I  saw! — black  armor — black 
steed — black  plumes  and  pennon! — the  very  image  of  a 
thunder-cloud  on  horseback!" 

Etto  felt  his  heart  turning  into  water. 

"A  very  worthy  antagonist,  indeed,"  said  the  minstrel, 
going  to  the  window,  and  looking  carelessly  out:  "Firm  as  a 
rock,  tall  as  a  tower.  If  it  were  any  one  but  our  count  who 
was  about  to  fight  him,  I  would  not  give  a  rhyme  for  his  life." 

By  this  time  Etto's  teeth  chattered  audibly. 

"The  day  wanes — may  it  please  your  lordship  to  rise? 
And  stay!  a  shirt  of  mail,  in  addition  to  the  armor,  were  not 
out  of  place  to-day." 

The  seneschal's  speech  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  and  mar- 
tial summons  from  without. 

"Hear  me!"  cried  Etto,  wringing  his  hands  in  utter  de- 
spair. "Seneschal! — Father! — Father  Zick! — I  have  been 
bewitched! — changed! — I  am  only  Count  Winplingerstrasse 
in  body — I  am  Etto  the  boor  in  soul. — I  can't  fight! — I  won't 
fight! — I  don't  know  how  to  fight! — Give  up  the  castle! — 
Give  up " 

The  trumpets  sounded  again  from  without;  again  the  gate 
was  assailed  with  loud  knocks ;  and  the  seneschal,  the  con- 
fessor, the  minstrel,  and  the  armorer,  looked  exceedingly  per- 


40  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

plexed.  The  jester  was  the  only  person  who  saw  his  way- 
through  the  dilemma.  "It  is  plain,"  said  he,  "  that  this  is  not 
our  real  master,  or  he  would  fight  for  us.  If  then  he  be  not 
our  real  master,  we  are  not  bound  to  fight  for  him.  Further- 
more, if  he  has  been  bewitched,  we  are  not  bound  to  keep 
terms  with  him  at  all;  I  propose,  therefore,  that  we  instantly 
hang  him  up  in  the  court-yard,  and  so  make  our  peace  with 
Baron  Seidensticker!"  The  jester  might  have  learnt  logic, 
and  his  auditors  have  understood  it,  so  unanimously  was  the 
proposal  agreed  to,  and  so  quickly  were  the  preparations  made 
for  carrying  it  into  effect. 

"Must  I  die?"  said  Etto,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
as  the  executioner  approached.  "Must  I  die,  without  hav- 
ing done  anything  to  deserve  it  too  ?" 

"Think  again,  Count  Winplingerstrasse,"  said  the  above- 
named  personage ;  "and  please  to  put  your  hands  down, 
that  I  may  tie  the  noose  round  your  neck.  Well,  if  you  won't, 
I  must." 

Horror  of  horrors! — When  his  eyes  were  uncovered,  Etto 
beheld  in  the  executioner  the  identical  stranger  who  had 
spoken  to  him  on  the  Brocken.  Yes,  he  wore  the  self-same 
Flemish  ruff,  the  German  hose  and  doublet,  the  English  hat, 
and  the  long  cloak. 

"Save,  save  me!"  cried  Etto,  clinging  to  the  last-named 
article  of  apparel. 

"  It  is  a  very  strange  thing,"  said  the  mysterious  execu- 
tioner, "that  people  should  invariably  repent  of  their  bargains 
with  me.     Ascend  the  ladder,  count." 

"Save  me!  save  me! — Change  me  again!" 
"Into  Baron  Seidensticker,  I  suppose.     No,  indeed;  you 
are  too  modest ;  I  will  exalt  you  yet  higher. — Mount  the  lad- 
der, I  say!"  and  the  speaker  jerked  the  rope  attached  to  the 
culprit,  in  order  to  give  emphasis  to  the  command. 
"Life,  with  bread  and  water!"  groaned  Etto. 
"Thou  art  a  driveler  as  well  as  a  dolt." 


THE    BOOR    OF    THE    BROCKEN.  41 

"I  am!  I  am!" 

"Fit  only  for  the  station  to  which  thou  wert  born." 

"Only  that— only  that!" 

"Dost  thou  perceive  that  it  is  very  dangerous  to  change 
places  with  people  without  knowing  their  private  history?" 

"I  perceive  it  most  clearly,"  said  Etto,  glancing  up  at  the 
gallows. 

"And  wilt  thou  ever  again  desire  to  be  king,  prince,  baron, 
count,  knight  or  squire?" 

"Never — never — never  more!" 

"Well,  then,  get  back  to  the  Brocken!"  And — hey, 
presto! — in  five  minutes  the  whole  aspect  and  condition  of 
things  were  changed.  Etto  was  again  a  boor  in  person  as  in 
mind,  sitting  on  the  crag  beside  his  father's  door:  the  exe- 
cutioner in  the  strange  garb  was  gone  ;  the  gallows  was  gone ; 
and  in  their  stead  was  the  real,  proper,  and  true-born  Count 
Winplingerstrasse  arming  in  hot  haste. 

That  night,  the  valiant  Baron  Seidensticker  found  himself 
bereft  of  three  teeth,  two  fingers,  and  a  thumb,  which,  together 
with  his  wine-butts  and  household  gear,  he  found  it  impossi- 
ble to  recover. 


ALICE. 

A    WEST    INDIAN    STORY. 

Fifty — sixty — seventy  (any  given  number  of)  years  ago, 
the  West  Indies  were  not  as  they  are  now,  in  these  days  of 
purity.  Then,  Lord  Dunderhead  was  Secretary  of  State  for 
the  Colonies,  and  Mr.  Bribely  was  his  secretary.  The  pains 
which  the  former  took  with  his  department  were  prodigious. 
It  was  his  estate.  He  had  the  same  care  for  it,  was  as  jealous 
of  it,  and  farmed  it  out  precisely  in  the  same  manner  as  a 
landlord  does  his  acres.  John  Pitchfork  was  not,  indeed, 
landlord  of  Thistledown  farm:  but  General  Gubbins,  grown 
gray  in  the  service  (by  walking  daily  from  the  Horse  Guards 
to  Bond  street),  was  appointed  Governor  of  Demerara  or 
Berbice; — or  Sergeant  Kitely  was  appointed  Judge: — and 
each  duly  rendered  to  the  "  noble  Secretary,"  in  the  shape 
of  rent,  two-thirds  of  the  supposed  profits  of  his  appointment. 
And  as  Lord  Dunderhead  mulcted  the  Governors  and  Judges, 
so  did  Mr.  Bribely  fleece  the  underlings; — and  as  the  Gover- 
nors and  Judges  paid  for  their  dignities,  so  did  they  make 
the  most  of  them.  Imprisonment,  flogging,  fining,  favoring, 
delaying, —  these  were  the  methods  of  collecting  the  revenue  ; 
these,  too,  were  the  weapons  with  which  their  "Arrogances" 
in  black  and  scarlet,  tamed  down  the  spirit  of  their  subjects, 
and  widened  the  space  between  the  colony  and  Great  Britain. 

The  colonists,  themselves,  were  not  what  they  are  at  pre- 


ALICE.  43 

sent ;  that  is  to  say,  they  were  not  then  meek,  modest,  hu- 
mane, temperate,  independent  people,  and  lovers  of  liberty ; — 
on  the  contrary,  they  were  boastful,  and  loved  Scheidam  and 
pine-apple  rum,  worshipped  their  superiors  in  station,  and 
despised  everybody  below  themselves.  Thus  the  newly  im- 
ported Englishers  held  the  regular  colonists  in  utter  contempt ; 
the  colonists  (a  white  race)  requited  themselves,  by  contemn- 
ing the  mustees  and  quadroons :  these  last,  on  their  parts, 
heartily  despised  the  half-caste  :  who,  in  turn,  transmitted  the 
scorn  on  to  the  heads  of  the  downright  blacks.  Whom  the 
blacks  despised,  I  never  could  learn;  but  probably  all  the 
rest :  and,  in  fact,  they  seem  to  have  had  ample  cause  for  so 
doing,  unless  the  base,  beggarly,  and  cruel  vanity  imputed  to 
their  "superiors,"  be  at  once  a  libel  and  a  fable. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  in  the  colony  of  Demerara, 
in  the  year  17 — ,  when  a  young  Englishman  went  there,  in 
order  to  inspect  his  newly-acquired  property.    His  name  was 

John  Vivian.     He  came  of  a  tolerably  good  family  in  

shire,  possessed  (without  being  at  all  handsome)  a  dark, 
keen,  intelligent  countenance  ;  and  derived,  from  his  mater- 
nal  uncle,  large  estates  in  Demerara,  and  from  his  father,  a 
small  farm  in  his  own  county,  a  strong  constitution,  and  a 
resolute,  invincible  spirit.  Perhaps,  he  had  too  much  obsti- 
nacy of  character— perhaps,  also,  an  intrepidity  of  manner, 
and  carelessness  of  established  forms,  which  would  have  been 
unsuitable  to  society  as  now  constituted.  All  this  we  will 
not  presume  to  determine.  We  do  not  wish  to  extenuate 
his  faults,  of  which  he  had  as  handsome  a  share  as  usually 
falls  to  the  lot  of  young  gentlemen  who  are  under  no  con- 
trol, though  not  altogether  of  precisely  the  same  character. 
In  requital  for  these  defects,  however,  he  was  a  man  of  firm 
mind,  of  a  generous  spirit,  and  would  face  danger,  and  stand 
up  against  oppression,  as  readily  on  behalf  of  others  as  of 
himself;  and,  at  the  bottom  of  all,  though  it  had  lain  hid 
from  his  birth,  (like  some  of  those  antediluvian  fossils  which 


44  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

perplex  our  geologists  and  antiquaries,)  he  had  a  tenderness 
and  delicacy  of  feeling,  which  must  not  be  passed  by  with- 
out, at  least,  our  humble  commendation. 

Exactly  eight  weeks  from  the  day  of  his  stepping  on  board 
the  good  ship  "Wager,"  at  Bristol,  Vivian  found  himself 
standing  on  the  shore  of  the  river  Demerara,  and  in  front  of 
its  capital,  Stabroek.  In  that  interval,  he  had  been  tossed 
on  the  wild  waters  of  the  Atlantic — had  passed  from  woollens 
to  nankeens — from  English  cold  to  tropic  heat — and  now 
stood  eyeing  the  curious  groups  which  distinguish  our  colo- 
nies, where  creatures  of  every  shade,  from  absolute  sable  to 
pallid  white,  may  be  seen — for  the  trouble  only  of  a  journey. 

But  we  have  a  letter  of  our  hero's  on  this  subject,  written 
to  a  friend  in  England,  on  his  landing,  which  we  will  unfold 
for  the  reader's  benefit.  Considering  that  the  writer  had  the 
range  of  foolscap  before  him,  and  was  transmitting  news 
from  the  torrid  to  the  temperate  zone,  it  may,  at  least,  lay 
claim  to  the  virtue  of  brevity.     Thus  it  runs: — 

"  To  Richard  Clinton,  Esq.,  &c.  &c,  Middle  Temple,  Lon- 
don, England. 

"Well,  Dick, — Here  am  I,  thy  friend,  John  Vivian,  safely 
arrived  at  the  country  of  cotton  and  tobacco.  Six  months 
ago,  I  would  have  ventured  a  grosschen  that  nothing  on  this 
base  earth  could  have  tempted  me  to  leave  foggy  England  : 
but  the  unkenneling  a  knave  was  a  temptation  not  to  be  re- 
sisted ;  and  accordingly  I  am  here,  as  you  see. 

"  Since  I  shook  your  hand  at  Bristol,  I  have  seen  somewhat 
of  the  world.  The  Cove  of  Cork— the  Madeiras— the  Peak 
of  Teneriffe— the  flying  fish — the  nautilus— the  golden-finned 
dorado — the  deep  blue  seas — and  the  tropic  skies — are  mat- 
ters which  some  would  explain  to  you  in  a  chapter.  But  I 
have  not  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer ;  so  you  must  be  content 
with  a  simple  enumeration. 

"My  voyage  was,  like  all  voyages,  detestable.  I  began 
with  sea-sickness  and  piercing  winds — I  ended  with  head- 


ALICE.  45 

ache  and  languor,  and  weather  to  which  your  English  dog- 
days  are  a  jest.  The  burning  blazing  heat  was  so  terrific, 
that  I  had  well  nigh  oozed  away  into  a  sea-god.  Nothing 
but  the  valiant  array  of  bottles  which  your  care  provided 
could  have  saved  me.  My  mouth  was  wide  open,  like  the 
seams  of  our  vessel ;  but,  unlike  them,  it  would  not  be  con- 
tent with  water.  I  poured  in  draught  after  draught  of  the 
brave  liquor.  I  drank  deep  healths  to  you  and  other  friends ; 
till,  at  last,  the  devil,  who  broils  Europeans  in  these  parts, 
took  to  his  wings  and  fled.  Thus  it  was,  Clinton,  that  I 
arrived  finally  at  Demerara. 

"But  now  comes  your  question  of  'What  sort  of  a  place 
is  this  same  Demerara?'    I'faith,  Dick,  'tis  flat  enough.    The 
run  up  the  river  is,  indeed,  pretty  ;  and  there  are  trees  enough 
to  satisfy  even  your  umbrageous-loving  taste.     It  is,  in  truth, 
a  land  of  woods— at  least  on  one  side;   and  you  may  roam 
among  orange  and  lemon  trees,  and  guavas  and  mangoes, 
amidst  aloes  and  cocoa-nut  and  cotton  and  mahogany  trees, 
till  you  would  wish  yourself  once  more  on  a  Lancashire  moor. 
Stabroek,  our  capital,  is  a  place  where  the  houses  are  built  of 
wood ;  where  melons,  and  oranges,  and  pine-apples  grow  as 
wild  as  thyself,  Dick;  and  where  black,  brown,  white,  and 
whitey-brown  people,  sangaree  and  cigars,  abound.     Of  all 
these  marvels  I  shall  know  more  shortly.    I  lodge  here  at  the 
house  of  a  Dutch  planter,  where  you  must  address  me  under 
my  traveling  cognomen .    John  Vivian  is  extinct  for  a  season ; 
but  your  letter  will  find  me,  if  it  be  addressed  to  'Mr.  John 
Vernon,  to  the  care  of  Mynheer  Schlachenbriichen,  merchant, 
in  Demerara.'     That  respectable  individual  would  die  the 
death  of  shame,  did  he  knowthat  he  held  the  great  <  proprietor,' 
Vivian,  in  his  garret.     At  present  I  am  nothing  more  than  a 
poor  protege  of  Messrs.  GrefFulhe,  come  out  to  the  hot  lati- 
tudes for  the  sake  of  health  and  employment. 

"  You  shall  hear  from  me  again  speedily  :  in  the  meantime, 
write  to  me  at  length.     This  letter  is  a  preface  merely  to  the 


46  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

innumerable  number  of  good  things  which  I  design  to  scrib- 
ble for  your  especial  instruction  and  amusement.  It  bears 
for  you  only  a  certificate  of  my  safe  arrival,  and  the  assurance 
that  I  am,  as  ever,  your  true  friend,  Vivian." 

Vivian  was,  in  truth,  tolerably  pleased  with  the  banks  of 
the  river,  fringed  as  it  was  with  trees,  and  spotted  with  cot- 
tages; but  when  he  actually  trod  upon  the  ground  of  the  New 
World,  and  found  himself  amidst  a  crowd  of  black  and  tawney 
faces — amidst  hats  like  umbrellas,  paroquets,  and  birds  of 
every  color  of  the  rainbow,  and  children  almost  as  various, 
plunging  in  and  out  of  the  river  like  water-dogs  or  mud- 
larks— he  could  not  conceal  his  admiration,  but  laughed  out- 
right: 

He  was  not  left  long  to  his  contemplations,  however ;  for 
the  sea-port  of  a  West  Indian  colony  has  as  many  volunteers 
of  all  sorts  as  Dublin  itself.  A  score  of  blacks  were  ready 
to  assist  him  with  his  luggage,  and  at  least  a  dozen  of  free 
negresses  and  mulattoes  had  baskets  of  the  best  fruit  in  the 
world.  He  might  have  had  a  wheelbarrowful  for  sixpence, 
and  the  aid  of  a  dozen  Sambos  for  an  insignificant  compli- 
ment in  copper.  Neglecting  these  advantages,  Vivian  made 
the  best  of  his  way  to  the  house  of  the  Mynheer-Schlachen- 
briichen,  the  Fleming,  which  was  well  known  to  all  the  cla- 
morous rogues  on  the  quay.  The  merchant  was  not  at  home ; 
having  retired,  as  usual,  to  sleep  at  hisjnantation  house,  a  few 
miles  from  town.  Our  hero,  however,  was  received,  with  slow 
and  formal  respect,  by  his  principal  clerk,  Hans  Wassel,  a 
strange  figure,  somewhat  in  the  shape  of  a  cone,  that  had  origi- 
nally sprung  up  (and  almost  struck  root)  somewhere  near  Ghent 
or  Bruges.  Holding  Vivian's  credentials  at  arms'  length, 
this  "  shape"  proceeded  to  decypher  the  address  of  the  letter 
through  an  enormous  pair  of  iron  spectacles.  In  due  time 
he  appeared  to  detect  the  hand-writing  of  the  London  corre- 
spondent ;  for  he  breathed  out,  "Aw  !  Mynheer  Franz  Gref- 
fulhe!"  and  proceeded  to  open  a  seal  as  big  as  a  saucer,  and 


ALICE.  47 

investigate  the  contents.  These  were  evidently  satisfactory ; 
for  he  put  on  a  look  of  benevolence,  and  welcomed  the 
new-comer  (who  was  announced  as  Mr.  Vernon)  to  Stabroek. 
"You  will  take  a  schnap?"  inquired  he,  with  a  look  which 
anticipated  an  affirmation.  "  As  soon  as  you  please,"  replied 
Vivian;  to  which  the  other  retorted  with  another  "Aw!"  and 
left  the  room  with  something  approaching  to  alertness,  in  order 
to  give  the  necessary  orders. 

The  ordinary  domestics  of  the  Fleming  were  much  more 
rapid  in  their  movements ;  for  Vivian  had  scarcely  time  to 
look  round  and  admire  the  neatness  of  the  room,  when  a 
clatter  at  the  door  compelled  him  to  turn  his  eyes  to  that 
quarter.  He  saw  a  lively-looking  black  come  in,  with  a  large 
pipe  of  curious  construction  and  a  leaden  box  containing 
tobacco,  followed  close  by  his  co-mate  Sambo,  (another 
"nigritude,")  who  bore,  in  both  hands,  a  huge  glass,  almost 
as  big  as  a  punch-bowl,  filled  to  the  brim  with  true  Nantz, 
tempered  but  not  injured,  by  a  small  portion  of  water.  Sambo 
appeared  justly  proud  of  his  burden,  which  he  placed  on  the 
table  in  its  original  state  of  integrity ;  for  after  looking  for  a 
moment  lovingly  at  the  liquid,  he  turned  round  to  Vivian, 
and  said,  exultingly,  "Dere,  massa!" 

But  we  will  not  detain  the  reader  with  any  detail  of  our 
hero's  movements  on  his  arrival  in  the  colony,  excepting  one 
or  two,  which  have  direct  reference  to  our  present  narrative. 
He  was  introduced  to  Mynheer  Schlachenbruchen  and  his 
wife,  each  of  whom,  were  our  limits  larger,  might  fairly  lay 
claim  to  commemoration.  As  it  is,  we  must  pass  them  by, 
and  content  ourselves  with  stating  the  fact  of  their  (the  mer- 
chant, at  all  events)  treating  Vivian  with  more  consideration 
than  his  ostensible  rank  demanded,  and  introducing  him  to 
their  acquaintance.  The  person,  however,  into  whose  society 
Vivian  was  more  especially  thrown,  was  a  young  girl,  who 
performed  the  offices  of  governess,  &c.  &c,  in  the  house  of 
the  Mynheer  Schlachenbruchen.     The  visitors  of  the  family 


48  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

avoided  her  as  though  she  had  the  plague,  (even  the  Mynheer 
himself  preserved  a  distance ;)  and  the  consequence  was,  that 
Vivian — himself  rather  looked  down  upon  by  the  colonial 
aristocracy — felt  himself  drawn  nearer  to  the  friendless  girl, 
and  assiduously  cultivated  her  good  opinion. 

This,  however,  was  not  a  thing  to  be  easily  attained. 
Alice  Halstein  (for  that  was  her  name)  had  few  of  the  quali- 
ties commonly  ascribed  to  thriving  governesses :  she  was, 
indeed,  an  acute-minded  and  even  an  accomplished  girl ;  but 
she  was  as  little  supple,  demure,  or  humble,  as  Vivian  himself. 
In  fact,  she  received  our  hero's  advances  with  indifferent 
cordiality  at  first;  but  the  magic  of  sincerity  will  win  its  way; 
and  they  accordingly,  at  last,  became  excellent  friends.  The 
thing  which  surprised  our  hero  the  most  was — how  it  was 
possible  for  the  dull,  gross,  unenlightened  blockheads  of  the 
colony  to  feel,  or  even  affect,  a  disdain  for  one  who  was 
evidently  so  much  their  superior.  At  last,  the  truth  came 
upon  him;  She  was  the  child  of — a  quadroon!  She  was 
lovely,  graceful,  virtuous,  intellectual,  accomplished,  modest, 
— a  model  for  women  ;  but  she  had  a  particle — (scarcely  ap- 
parent, indeed,  but  still  there  was  a  particle  or  two) — a  few 
drops  of  blood  of  a  warmer  tinge  than  loiters  through  the 
pallid  cheeks  of  a  European:  and  hence  she  was  visited  with 
universal  contempt. 

"Ten  thousand  curses  light  on  their  narrow  souls!"  was 
Vivian's  first  exclamation.  "  She  shall  be  my  friend,  my — 
my — sister.  The  senseless,  brutal  wretches  ! — they  little 
think  that,  under  the  mask  of  Vernon,  the  wealthiest  of  their 
tribe  is  amongst  them,  and  that  he  respects  the  little  Pariah 
beyond  the  whole  of  their  swollen  and  beggarly  race."  A 
very  short  time  was  sufficient  for  him  to  form  a  determination 
to  rescue  the  object  of  his  admiration  from  her  painful  state 
of  servitude.  Not  being  accustomed,  however,  to  deal  with 
the  delicacy  of  ladies,  he  plunged  at  once  into  the  matter, 
with  headlong  rashness. 


ALICE.  49 

"You  are  badly  off,  Miss  Halstein?"  said  Vivian  to  her, 
one  morning,  in  his  very  bluntest  tone. 

"  I  do  not  complain,  sir,"  replied  she,  coldly. 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  he,  hesitatingly,  "and  would 
help  you." 

"Spare  your  pity,"  returned  the  lady:  "we  have  neither 
of  us  much  to  thank  Fortune  for.  Yet  you  are  content,  or 
seem  so;  and  so  also  can  I  be.  We  will  talk  on  another 
subject." 

"  S'death !"  exclaimed  the  other,  recollecting  his  incognito ; 
"  I  had  forgot.  Pardon  me— I  was  a  fool.  You  will  think 
me  mad,  with  my  offers  of  help,  and  my  show  of  pity;  but 
it  is  not  so :  I  am  sane  enough,  and  some  of  these  days  you 
shall  confess  it.  Come, — will  you  not  go  with  us  up  the 
river?  We  are  to  run  up  almost  as  far  as  The  Sandhills  to- 
morrow, to  visit  the  Reynestein  estate  and  the  Palm-Groves, 
which  belong  to  the  rich  Englishman,  Vivian.  Perhaps  you 
were  never  there !" 

"  I  was  born  there,"  was  the  reply  ;  and  it  was  somewhat 
tremulously  uttered. 

"  Ha !  then  you  will  be  delighted  to  visit  the  spot,  no  doubt. 
Did  you  know  the  late  proprietor?" 

"Too  well,"  said  she;  "he  was— a  villain." 
"How,  madam—?"    Vivian  was  forgetting  himself  again, 
at  this  attack  on  his  uncle's  memory:  but  he  hastened  to  re- 
cover.    "I    mean  the  last  owner,"   he   resumed,  "whose 
name  was,  I  think, — Morson." 

"I  knew  him,  sir;  and,  as  I  have  said,  too  well.  Do  you 
know  by  what  luck  it  was  that  he  obtained  the  Palm  Groves? 
No?  Then  I  will  tell  you,  sir.  His  predecessor  was  a  care- 
less, easy,  and  very  old  man.  By  a  series  of  unforeseen 
reverses,  by  the  failure  of  correspondents,  and  the  roguery 
of  friends,  he  became  involved  at  last.  All  that  he  wanted, 
however,  was  a  little  money  for  present  exigencies;  with  that, 
and  a  course  of  economy  for  a  few  years,  he  might  have  re- 
5 


50  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

trieved  his  broken  fortunes.  His  most  intimate  friend  and 
neighbor  was  this  Morson.  Who,  then,  was  more  likely  than 
he  to  help  him  with  a  loan  of  money?  He  was  rich  and 
childless ;  but  the  old  planter  whom  I  have  spoken  of,  had 
one  single  child— a  girl.  Pity,  therefore,  as  well  as  friend- 
ship, might  move  Morson  to  aid  him  in  his  extremity.  And 
he  did  aid  him— at  least,  he  lent  him  money,  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  his  manager — " 

"Seyton?"  asked  Vivian  interrupting  her. 

"Yes,  Seyton,"  replied  she,  "  who  coveted  the  old  planter's 
daughter  for  a  wife,  and  who  thought  that,  if  the  parent  were 
ruined,  his  child  would  be  glad  of  any  refuge.  He  dreamed 
that  she,  who  had  interfered  often  between  him  and  his 
victims,  would  forget  all  her  old  abhorrence,  and  unite  her 
fate  with  that  of  the  most  barbarous  tyrant  that  ever  disgraced 
even  a  West  Indian  colony.     Well,  sir,— to  end  this  tedious 

story — " 

"It  is  most  interesting  to  me,"  said  Vivian — "deeply, 
deeply  interesting ;"  and  his  glowing  eyes  and  earnest  atten- 
tion were  sufficient  proofs  that  he  spoke  truly. 

"Well,  sir, — the    end   was,  that   Morson   advanced   the 

money;  that  Seyton  intrigued  with  the  slaves,  and  caused 

many  of  them  to  revolt  and  run  away  into  the  woods  ;  and 

that  the  poor  old  man  fell  from  trouble  into  want,  and  from  want 

into   absolute  despair.     His  plantations  were  useless;  his 

crops  perished  on  the  ground,  for  want  of  slaves ;  his  mills 

and  buildings  were  burnt  by  unknown  hands  ;   and  finally, 

his  hard  and  avaricious  creditor,  the  relentless  Morson,  came 

upon  him,  and  took  possession  of  all  his  estates,  for  a  debt 

amounting  to  one-sixth  of  their  value.     The  old  man" — 

Miss  Halstein's  voice  shook  at  this  part,  and  betrayed  great 

agitation, — "  The  old  man  soon  afterwards  died,  and  his  only 

child  was  cast  upon  the  world  to  earn  her  bitter  bread. — This 

is  all,  sir.     I  have  given  you  the  history  of  one-half  of  Mr. 


ALICE.  51 

Vivian's  property:   perhaps  the  other"  (she  spoke  this  with 
some  acrimony)  "  is  held  upon  a  similar  tenure." 

"God  forbid  !"  said  Vivian.  "  But  Seyton ?— Did  he  urge 
his  suit?" 

"He  did,  and  -was  refused.  And  therefore  it  is  (for  he  is 
a  bad  and  revengeful  man)  that  I  am  fearful  of  coming  upon 
an  estate  of  which  he  is,  essentially,  the  master.  In  the 
absence  of  Mr.  Vivian,  his  power  is  uncontrolled ;  and  there 
is  no  knowing  what  claim  he  might  urge  against  me.  He 
once  hinted  that  I  was  born  a  slave  on  the  Palm-Grove  estate, 
and,  as  such,  belonged  to  his  master — I,  who  am  the  own 
daughter  of  Wilhelm  Halstein,  to  whom  all,  but  a  few  years 
ago,  belonged." 

"  You!"  exclaimed  our  hero,  "Are  you  the  person  whom 
Vivian  intercepts?  He  shall  do  it  no  more.  Rest  content, 
Miss  Halstein.  Vivian  is  not  the  man  to  injure  any  one,  and 
least  of  all  yourself.  Go  with  us  to-morrow — I  beg,  I  pray, 
that  you  will.  I  pledge  my  honor — my  soul,  that  you  shall 
not  be  a  sufferer." 

The  lady  still  refused,  however,  and  it  was  not  till  the  old 
merchant  (Schlachenbruchen,  to  whom  Vivian  had  spoken  in 
the  meantime)  had  also  given  his  solemn  promise  to  protect 
her,  that  she  consented  to  go.  She  was  a  little  surprised, 
indeed,  at  Vivian's  urging  the  matter  so  vehemently;  but  as 
the  merchant  seconded  his  requests,  she  could  not  continue 
to  refuse. 

A  row  up  the  river  Demerara, — past  Diamond  Point,  to 
the  Sandhills,  need  not  call  for  any  particular  description. 
We  will  suppose  that  the  party  had  arrived  at  the  Palm-Grove 
estate,  which  the  merchant  (authorized  by  a  power  transmitted 
by  Vivian  from  England)  had  come  to  overlook. 

The  party  were  introduced  to  Seyton,  a  ferocious  looking 
man,  of  middle  age,  who,  with  a  mixture  of  self-consequence 
and  ambiguous  civility,  welcomed  the  merchant  and  his  com- 
panions.    He  took  no  notice  of  Vivian,  indeed,  but  when  he 


52  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

saw  Miss  Halstein  (who  leant  on  our  hero's  arm)  his  eyes 
sparkled  and  his  lip  curled,  and  turning  to  the  merchant,  he 
said  hastily,  "Before  you  leave  the  estate,  there  is  a  point  of 
some  consequence  that  I  must  take  leave  to  mention,  respect- 
ing this  young  person:"  and  he  touched  her,  as  he  spoke, 
with  the  point  of  the  cane  that  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

"Stand  off,  fellow!"  said  Vivian  angrily,  "  another  touch, 
or  another  insolent  word,  and  I  will  lay  you  at  my  feet." 

The  other  started,  and  examined  our  hero's  appearance, 
cautiously  and  sullenly.  He  saw  nothing,  however,  except 
an  athletic  figure  and  a  resolute  countenance,  and  retreated 
from  collision  with  so  formidable  an  opponent.  He  did  not, 
however,  retreat  from  his  demand. 

"Observe,  Mynheer,"  said  he,  addressing  the  merchant 
once  more — "I  speak  as  the  agent  only  of  Mr.  Vivian.  This 
— gentleman  will  scarcely  blame  me  for  insisting  on  the  rights 
of  my  principal." 

"By  no  means — by  no  means,"  replied  the  merchant. 
"All  in  good  time.  We  will  talk  of  that,  presently.  In  the 
mean  time,  we  will  look  at  the  balances.  After  that,  we 
will  ask  what  your  larder  contains ;  and  then — for  the  rights 
you  speak  of.     Eh,  Mr.  Vernon — is  not  that  the  way?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  said  Vivian.  "Miss  Halstein  will 
leave  all  to  you :  I  am  quite  sure  that  she  may  do  so  safely." 

Two  or  three  hours  were  sufficient  to  overlook  the  accounts, 
and  to  dispose  of  the  refreshments,  which  were  offered  with 
some  degree  of  parade  to  the  visitors,  at  the  expense  of  the 
estate.  Vivian  ate  heartily,  and  without  scruple,  of  the  pro- 
duce of  his  own  property ;  and  everything  unpleasant  seemed 
forgotten,  except  by  Miss  Halstein,  when  the  party  (which  had 
been  augmented,  as  agreed  upon,  by  the  arrival  of  the  Syndic, 
from  Stabroek)  prepared  to  go. 

"Now,"  said  Seyton,  "I  must  once  more  draw  your  atten- 
tion to  my  demand.     I  claim  this— lady,  if  you  will,— as  a 


ALICE.  53 


slave.     She  was  born  on  the  estate,  has  never  been  made 
free,  and  belongs  of  right  to  my  principal,  Vivian." 

"Bah!  man,"  exclaimed  the  merchant ;  "I  thought  all  that 
was  past.  Surely,  good  wine  and  excellent  Nantz  must 
have  washed  all  such  bad  thoughts  out  of  your  head.  Come, 
let  us  go.     Alice,  girl,  take  hold  of  Mr.  Vernon's  arm,  and 

"By  your  leave,  it  must  not  be  so,"  said  Seyton,  impera- 
tively. He  rang  a  bell,  and  eight  or  ten  black  slaves  ap- 
peared. "You  are  at  liberty  to  go,  gentlemen;  but  the  lady 
remains  with  me.  Have  I  not  the  law  with  me?"  added  he, 
addressing  the  Syndic. 

That  officer  assented,  adding,  however,  that  all  depended 
on  the  will  of  Vivian.  The  lady  might,  indeed,  be  entitled 
to  her  liberty;  but  until  she  proved  her  freedom,  she  must 
remain  the  property  of  the  planter. 

"  That  is  sufficient,"  said  Seyton,  I  am  Vivian's  represent- 
ative." 

"  Then  I  am  lost!"  exclaimed  Alice. 

"Pardon  me,"  replied  the  Syndic,  "Mr.  Seyton  is  super- 
seded. Mynheer,  here,  has  the  power  of  appointing  a  ma- 
anger  over  this  property.  Besides  which,  Mr,  Vivian  himself 
has  arrived  at  Stabroek — " 

"Ha!" — said  Seyton,  "then  no  time  is  to  be  lost.  Super- 
seded or  not,  Mr.  Vivian  shall  not  lose  his  property.  Do  your 
duty,  fellows,"  added  he  addressing  the  slaves.  "Seize 
upon  that  woman,  in  the  name  of  your  master,  Vivian." 

"Back,  I  say,"  said  our  hero,  pulling  out  a  brace  of  pistols, 
and  pointing  them  towards  the  advancing  negroes.  "Back, 
men,  and  be  wise.  And  you  Mr.  Manager,  or  whatever  you 
are, — take  heed  how  you  overstep  your  duty.  Know,  sirrah, 
that  your  master  does  not  think  your  false  accounts  the  worst 
part  of  your  bad  history.  Your  cruelty  to  these  poor  slaves 
beneath  you,  has  come  to  his  ears;  and  for  that  he  dismisses 

5* 


54  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

you  his  service.  For  your  impudent  and  unfounded  claim 
upon  this  lady  whom  your  master  loves — 

"What!"  exclaimed  Alice:  but  the  merchant  restrained 
her  surprise. 

"Whom  your  master  loves,  wooes,  and  whom — if  heaven 
is  propitious  (he  says  this  doubtingly  and  humbly)  he  will 
win — For  this  atrocious  insult  there  is  no  punishment  great 
enough.  Yet,  if  any  attempt  be  made  upon  her,  you  shall 
at  least  be  chastised  to  your  heart's  content.  Be  satisfied 
that  I  do  not  jest,  and  remain  quiet." 

"We  are  all  armed,  Mr.  Seyton,"  said  the  merchant;  "you 
had  better  let  us  depart  quietly." 

"She  shall  not  go,"  replied  Seyton,  foaming  with  rage. 
"Once  more  seize  upon  her,  men:  seize  upon  her  for  your 
master,  Vivian.     Till  he  comes,  I  will  be  obeyed  at  least." 

"He  is  liereV  said  Vivian,  rushing  between  Alice  and  her 
adversaries — "He  is  here:  he  overlooks  you,  and  will  punish 
you.  Look,  slaves,  I  am  Vivian, — your  master!  Obey  me, 
as  you  value  the  liberty  which  every  man  on  my  estate  shall 
have  if  he  deserves  it." 

"What  he  says  is  true.  This  is,  indeed,  Mr.  Vivian," 
said  the  merchant; — and  the  Syndic  corroborated  his  tale. 
All  was  quiet  in  an  instant.  Yet  Alice  Halstein  still  looked 
overcome.  "What  is  this?"  inquired  the  merchant:  "You 
ought  to  be  rejoiced." 

"I  am,"  she  replied.  "But, — Mr.  Vivian,  you  have 
something  to  forget.     Can  you  forgive  me?" 

"I  cannot,"  answered  Vivian ;  "unless  with  the  Palm- 
Groves,  (which  from  this  moment  is  all  your  own),  you  take 
an  incumbrance  with  it." 

"And  that  is — ?"  said  Miss  Halstein,  inquiringly. 

"  It  is  myself,  Alice,"  replied  Vivian,  tenderly.  "  Prithee, 
be  generous  ;  and  think  what  a  way  I  have  wandered  from 
home.  Take  pity  on  me,  and  give  me  shelter  with  you  at 
the  Palm-Groves." 


ALICE.  55 

"  We  will  talk  of  this  hereafter,"  said  Miss  Halstein  gently, 
and  dropping  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"What  a  strange  lover  he  is,"  whispered  the  Syndic  to 
the  merchant. 

"That  is  true  enough,"  answered  the  other.  "Yet  would 
I  wager  a  grosschen  that  he  succeeds.  He  is  a  fine,  intrepid, 
persevering  young  fellow ;  and  such  men  seldom  fail  in  any- 
thing that  they  set  their  hearts  upon." 

The  old  merchant  was  a  true  prophet,  for  before  three 
months  had  elapsed,  the  pretty  Alice  became  lawful  mistress 
of  the  heart  and  household  of  Vivian.  The  Reynestein 
flourished  ;  but  the  Palm-Groves  became  their  home.  In  the 
course  of  time,  the  blacks  on  their  estates  were  enabled,  in 
pursuance  of  a  system  equally  wise  and  generous,  to  emerge 
from  the  condition  of  bondmen;  but  they  still  remained  as 
cultivators,  attracted  equally  by  kind  treatment,  and  an  equi- 
table share  of  the  profits  of  their  labors. 

"After  all, — the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world,"  said 
Vivian,  one  day  to  his  wife,  "is  conferring  pleasure;  and 
the  greatest  pleasure  which  one  can  confer,  is  to  give  freedom 
to  one's  fellow-man." 


VERSES  INSCRIBED  IN  AN  ALBUM 

BY   FRANCIS    JEFFREY,    ESQ.. 

Why  write  my  name  'midst  songs  and  flowers, 

To  meet  the  eye  of  lady  gay  ? 
I  have  no  voice  for  ladies'  bowers — 

For  page  like  this  no  fitting  lay. 

Yet  though  my  heart  no  more  must  bound 
At  witching  call  of  sprightly  joys, 

Mine  is  the  brow  that  never  frown'd 
On  laughing  lips,  or  sparkling  eyes. 

No — though  behind  me  now  is  closed 

The  youthful  paradise  of  Love, 
Yet  can  I  bless,  with  soul  composed, 

The  lingerers  in  that  happy  grove ! 


Take,  then,  fair  girls,  my  blessing  take 
Where'er  amid  its  charms  you  roam ; 

Or  where,  by  western  hill  or  lake, 
You  brighten  a  serener  home. 


And  while  the  youthful  lover's  name 
Here  with  the  sister  beauties  blends, 

Laugh  not  to  scorn  the  humbler  aim, 
That  to  their  list  would  add  a  friend's! 


THE    RED    MAN. 

It  was  at  the  hour  of  nine,  in  an  August  evening,  that  a 
solitary  horseman  arrived  at  the  Black  Swan,  a  country  inn 
about  nine  miles  from  the  town  of  Leicester.  He  was 
mounted  on  a  large  fiery  charger,  as  black  as  jet,  and  had 
behind  him  a  portmanteau  attached  to  the  croup  of  his  saddle. 
A  black  traveling  cloak,  which  not  only  covered  his  own 
person,  but  the  greater  part  of  his  steed,  was  thrown  around 
him.  On  his  head  he  wrore  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  with  an 
uncommonly  low  crown.  His  legs  were  cased  in  top-boots, 
to  which  were  attached  spurs  of  an  extraordinary  length ;  and 
in  his  hands  he  carried  a  whip,  with  a  thong  three  yards 
long,  and  a  handle  which  night  have  leveled  Goliath  him- 
self. 

On  arriving  at  the  inn,  he  calmly  dismounted,  and  called 
upon  the  hostler  by  name. 

"Frank,"  said  he,  "take  my  horse  to  the  stable;  rub  him 
down  thoroughly;  and,  when  he  is  well  cooled,  step  in  and 
let  me  know."  And,  taking  hold  of  his  portmanteau,  he 
entered  the  kitchen,  followed  by  the  obsequious  landlord, 
who  had  come  out  a  minute  before,  on  hearing  of  his  arrival. 
There  were  several  persons  present,  engaged  in  nearly  the 

uiie  occupation.  At  one  side  of  the  fire  sat  the  village 
schoolmaster — a  thin,  pale,  peak-nosed  little  man,  with  a 
powdered  periwig,  terminating  behind  in  a  long  queue,  and 
an  expression  of  self-conceit  strongly  depicted  upon  his 
countenance.     He  was  amusing  himself  with  a  pipe,  from 


58  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

which  he  threw  forth  volumes  of  smoke  with  an  air  of  great 
satisfaction.  Opposite  to  him  sat  the  parson  of  the  parish — 
a  fat,  bald-headed  personage,  dressed  in  a  rusty  suit  of  black, 
and  having  his  shoes  adorned  with  immense  silver  buckles. 
Between  these  two  characters  sat  the  exciseman,  with  a  pipe 
in  one  hand,  and  a  tankard  in  the  other.  To  complete  the 
group,  nothing  is  wanted  but  to  mention  the  landlady,  a 
plump,  rosy  dame  of  thirty-five,  who  was  seated  by  the 
schoolmaster's  side  apparently  listening  to  some  sage  remarks 
which  that  little  gentleman  was  throwing  out  for  her  edifica- 
tion. 

But  to  return  to  the  stranger.  No  sooner  had  he  entered 
the  kitchen,  followed  by  the  landlord,  than  the  eyes  of  the 
company  were  directed  upon  him.  His  hat  was  so  broad  in 
the  brim,  his  spurs  were  so  long,  his  stature  so  great,  and  his 
face  so  totally  hid  by  the  collar  of  his  immense  black  cloak, 
that  he  instantly  attracted  the  attention  of  every  person  pre- 
sent. His  voice,  when  he  desired  the  master  of  the  house  to 
help  him  off  with  his  mantle,  was  likewise  so  harsh  that  they 
all  heard  it  with  sudden  curiosity.  Nor  did  this  abate  when 
the  cloak  was  removed,  and  his  hat  laid  aside.  A  tall,  athle- 
tic red-haired  man,  of  the  middle  age,  was  then  made  mani- 
fest. He  had  on  a  red  frock  coat,  a  red  vest,  and  a  red 
neckcloth;  nay,  his  gloves  were  red!  What  was  more  ex- 
traordinary, when  the  overalls  which  covered  his  thighs  were 
unbuttoned,  it  was  discovered  that  his  small-clothes  were  red 
likewise. 

"All  red!"  ejaculated  the  parson,  almost  involuntarily. 
"As  you  say,  the  gentleman  is  all  red!"  added  the  school- 
master, with  his  characteristic  flippancy.  He  was  checked 
by  a  look  from  the  landlady.  His  remark,  however,  caught 
the  stranger's  ear,  and  he  turned  round  upon  him  with  a 
penetrating  glance.  The  schoolmaster  tried  to  smoke  it  off 
bravely.  It  would  not  do :  he  felt  the  power  of  that  look, 
and  was  reduced  to  almost  immediate  silence. 


THE    RED    MAN.  59 

"Now  bring  me  your  boot-jack,"  said  the  horseman. 

The  boot-jack  was  brought,  and  the  boots  pulled  off.  To 
the  astonishment  of  the  company,  a  pair  of  red  stockings 
were  brought  into  view.  The  landlord  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
the  exciseman  did  the  same,  the  landlady  shook  her  head, 
the  parson  exclaimed,  "All  red!"  as  before,  and  the  school- 
master would  have  repeated  it,  but  he  had  not  yet  recovered 
from  his  rebuke. 

"Faith,  this  is  odd!"  observed  the  host. 

"Rather  odd,"  said  the  stranger,  seating  himself  between 
the  parson  and  the  exciseman.  The  landlord  was  confound- 
ed, and  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  the  matter. 

After  sitting  for  a  few  moments,  the  new-comer  requested 
the  host  to  hand  him  a  nightcap,  which  he  would  find  in  his 
hat.  He  did  so  :  it  was  a  red  worsted  one  ;  and  he  put  it 
upon  his  head. 

Here  the  exciseman  broke  silence,  by  ejaculating,  "Red 
again!"  The  landlady  gave  him  an  admonitory  knock  on 
the  elbow  :  it  was  too  late.  The  stranger  heard  his  remark, 
and  regarded  him  with  one  of  those  piercing  glances  for 
which  his  fiery  eye  seemed  so  remarkable. 

"All  red !"  murmured  the  parson  once  more. 

"Yes,  Doctor  Poundtext,  the  gentleman,  as  you  say,  is  all 
red,"  re-echoed  the  schoolmaster,  who  by  this  time  had  re- 
covered his  self-possession.  He  would  have  gone  on,  but 
the  landlady  gave  him  a  fresh  admonition,  by  trampling  upon 
his  toes  ;  and  her  husband  winked  in  token  of  silence.  As 
in  the  case  of  the  exciseman  the  warnings  were  too  late. 

"Now,  landlord,"  said  the  stranger,  after  he  had  been 
seated  a  minute,  "may  I  trouble  you  to  get  me  a  pipe  and  a 
can  of  your  best  Burton  ?  But,  first  of  all,  open  my  portman- 
teau and  give  me  out  my  slippers." 

The  host  did  as  he  was  desired,  and  produced  a  pair  of  red 
morocco  slippers.  Here  an  involuntary  exclamation  broke 
out  from  the  company.     It  began  with  the  parson,  and  was 


60  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

taken  up  by  the  schoolmaster,  the  exciseman,  the  land- 
lady, and  the  landlord  in  succession.  "More  red!"  pro- 
ceeded from  every  lip,  with  different  degrees  of  loudness. 
The  landlord's  was  the  least  loud,  the  schoolmaster's  the 
loudest  of  all. 

"I  suppose,  gentlemen,"  said  the  stranger,  "you  were 
remarking  upon  my  slippers." 

"Eh — yes!  we  were  just  saying  that  they  were  red,"  re- 
plied the  schoolmaster. 

"And,  pray,"  demanded  the  other,  as  he  raised  the  pipe 
to  his  mouth,  "did  you  never  before  see  a  pair  of  red  slip- 
pers ?" 

This  question  staggered  the  respondent :  he  said  nothing, 
but  looked  to  the  parson  for  assistance. 

"  But  you  are  all  red,"  observed  the  latter,  taking  a  full 
draught  from  a  foaming  tankard  which  he  held  in  his  hand, 

"And  you  are  all  black,"  said  the  other,  as  he  withdrew 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  emitted  a  copious  puff  of  to- 
bacco smoke.  "The hat  that  covers  your  numscull  is  black, 
your  beard  is  black,  your  coat  is  black,  your  vest  is  black ; 
your  small-clothes,  your  stockings,  your  shoes  are  all  black. 

In  a  word,  Doctor  Poundtext,  your  are " 

"What  am  I,  sir?"  said  the  parson,  bursting  with  rage. 
"Ay,  what  is  he,  sir?"  rejoined  the  schoolmaster. 
"  He  is  a  black-coat,"  said  the  stranger  with  a  contempt- 
uous sneer,  "and  you  are  a  pedagogue."  This  sentence 
was  followed  by  a  profound  calm.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
by  any  of  the  company,  but  each  gazed  upon  his  neighbor 
in  silence.  In  the  faces  of  the  parson  and  schoolmaster 
anger  was  principally  depicted  :  the  exciseman's  mouth  was 
turned  down  in  disdain,  the  landlady's  was  curled  into  a 
sarcastic  smile  ;  and  as  for  the  landlord,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say  whether  astonishment,  anger,  or  fear,  most  predomi- 
nated in  his  mind.  During  this  ominous  tranquillity  the 
stranger  looked  on  unmoved,  drinking  and  smoking  alter- 


THE    RED    MAN.  61 

nately  with  total  indifference.  The  schoolmaster  "would  have 
said  something  had  he  dared,  and  so  would  the  parson  ;  but 
both  were  yet  smarting  too  bitterly  under  their  rebuff  to  hazard 
another  observation. 

In  the  midst  of  this  mental  tumult,  the  little  bandy-legged 
hostler  made  his  appearance,  and  announced  to  the  rider  that 
his  horse  had  been  rubbed  down  according  to  orders.  On 
hearing  this  the  Red  Man  got  up  from  his  seat,  and  walked 
out  to  the  stable.  His  departure  seemed  to  act  as  a  sudden 
relief  to  those  who  were  left  behind.  Their  tongues,  which 
his  presence  had  bound  by  a  talismanic  influence,  were 
loosened,  and  a  storm  of  words  broke  forth  proportioned  to 
the  fearful  calm  which  preceded  it. 

"Who  is  that  man  in  red?"  said  the  parson,  first  breaking 
silence. 

"Ay,  who  is  he?"  re-echoed  the  schoolmaster. 

"He  is  a  bit  of  a  conjurer,  I  warrant,"  quoth  the  excise- 
man. 

"I  should  not  wonder,"  said  the  landlord,  "if  he  be  a  spy 
from  France." 

"Or  a  traveling  packman,"  added  the  landlady. 

"I  am  certain  he  is  no  better  than  he  should  be,"  spake 
the  parson  again. 

"That  is  clear,"  exclaimed  the  whole  of  the  company, 
beginning  with  the  pedagogue,  and  terminating  as  usual  with 
the  host.  Here  was  a  pause:  at  last  Doctor  Poundtext  re- 
sumed— "I  shall  question  him  tightly  when  he  returns;  and 
if  his  answers  are  impertinent  or  unsatisfactory,  something 
must  be  done." 

"Ay,  something  must  be  done,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"Whatever  you  do,"  said  the  landlady,  "let  it  be  done 
civilly.     I  should  not  like  to  anger  him." 

"A  fig  for  his  anger!"  roared  her  husband,  snapping  his 
fingers;  "I  shall  give  him  the  back  of  the  door  in  the  twin- 
kling of  an  eye,  if  he  so  much  as  chirps." 
6 


62  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

"An^er,  indeed!"  observed  the  exciseman;  "leave  that  to 
rue  and  my  cudgel." 

"To  you  and  your  cudgel!"  said  the  stranger,  who  at  this 
moment  entered,  and  resumed  his  place  at  the  fireside,  after 
casting  a  look  of  ineffable  contempt  upon  the  exciseman. 
The  latter  did  not  dare  to  say  a  word ;  his  countenance  fell, 
and  his  stick,  which  he  was  brandishing  a  moment  before, 
dropped  between  his  legs. 

There  was  another  pause  in  the  conversation.     The  ap- 
pearance of  the  Red  Man  again  acted  like  a   spell  on  the 
voices  of  the   company.     The  parson  was  silent,  and  by  a 
natural  consequence,  his  echo,  the  schoolmaster,  was  silent 
also:  none  of  the  others  felt  disposed  to  say  anything.     The 
meeting  was  like  an  assemblage  of  Quakers.     At  one  side 
of  the  fire  sat  the  plump  parson,  with  the  tankard  in  one 
hand,  and  the  other  placed  upon  his  forehead,  as  in  deep 
meditation.    At  the  opposite  side  sat  the  schoolmaster,  puffing 
vehemently  from  a  tobacco-pipe.     In  the  centre  was  the  ex- 
ciseman, having  at  his  right  hand  the  jolly  form  of  the  land- 
lady, and  at  his  left  the  Man  in  Red ;  the  landlord  stood  at 
some  distance  behind.     For  a  time  the  whole,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  stranger,  were  engaged  in  anxious  thought. 
The  one  looked  to  the  other  with  wondering  glances,  but, 
though  all  equally  wished  to  speak,  no  one  liked  to  be  the 
first  to  open  the  conversation.     "Who  can  this  man  be?" 
"What  does  he  want  here?"     "Where  is   he  from,  and 
whither   is   he   bound?"     Such   were  the   inquiries  which 
occupied  every  mind.     Had  the  object  of  their  curiosity  been 
a  brown  man,  a  black  man,  or  even  a  green  man,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  extraordinary;  and  he  might  have  entered 
the  inn  and  departed  from  it   as  unquestioned  as  before  he 
came.     But  to  be  a  Red  Man!    There  was  in  this  something 
so  startling  that  the  lookers-on  were  beside  themselves  with 
amazement.     The  first  to  break  this  strange  silence  was  the 
parson. 


THE    RED   MAN.  63 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "we  have  been  thinking  that  you  are 


•>■> 


"  That  I  am  a  conjurer,  a  French  spy,  a  traveling  pack- 
man, or  something  of  the  sort,"  observed  the  stranger. 
Doctor  Poundtext  started  back  on  his  chair,  and  well  he 
might;  for  these  words  which  the  Man  in  Red  had  spoken, 
were  the  very  ones  he  himself  was  about  to  utter.  , 

"  Who  are  you,  sir?"  resumed  he,  in  manifest  perturbation. 
"What  is  your  name?" 

"My  name,"  replied  the  other,  "is  Reid." 

"And  where,  in  Heaven's  name,  were  you  born?"  de- 
manded the  astonished  parson. 

"I  was  born  on  the  borders  of  the  Red  Sea."  Doctor 
Poundtext  had  not  another  word  to  say.  The  schoolmaster 
was  equally  astounded,  and  withdrew  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth:  that  of  the  exciseman  dropped  to  the  ground;  the 
landlord  groaned  aloud,  and  his  spouse  held  up  her  hands  in 
mingled  astonishment  and  awe. 

After  giving  them  this  last  piece  of  information,  the  strange 
man  arose  from  his  seat,  broke  his  pipe  in  pieces,  and  pitched 
the  fragments  into  the  fire ;  then,  throwing  his  long  cloak 
carelessly  over  his  shoulders,  putting  his  hat  upon  his  head, 
and  loading  himself  with  his  boots,  his  whip,  and  his  port- 
manteau, he  desired  the  landlord  to  show  him  to  his  bed,  and 
left  the  kitchen,  after  smiling  sarcastically  to  its  inmates,  and 
giving  them  a  familiar  and  unceremonious  nod. 

His  disappearance  was  the  signal  for  fresh  alarm  in  the 
minds  of  those  left  behind.  Not  a  word  was  said  till  the 
return  of  the  innkeeper,  who  in  a  short  time  descended  from 
the  bed-room  over-head,  to  which  he  had  conducted  his  guest. 
On  re-entering  the  kitchen,  he  was  encountered  by  a  volley  of 
interrogations.  The  parson,  the  schoolmaster,  the  exciseman 
and  his  own  wife,  questioned  him  over  and  over  again. 
"Who  was  the  man  in  red? — he  must  have  seen  him  before 
—he  must  have  heard  of  him — in  a  word,  he  must  know 


64  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

something  about  him."  The  host  protested  "that  he  never 
beheld  the  stranger  till  that  hour:  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
made  his  appearance  at  the  Black  Swan,  and,  so  help  him 
God,  it  should  be  the  last!" 

"Why  don't  you  turn  him  out?"  exclaimed  the  exciseman. 

"If  you  think  you  are  able  to  do  it,  you  are  heartily  wel- 
come," replied  the  landlord.  "  For  my  part,  I  have  no  notion 
of  coming  to  close  quarters  with  the  shank  of  his  whip,  or  his 
great,  red,  sledge-hammer  fist."  This  was  an  irresistible 
argument,  and  the  proposer  of  forcible  ejectment  said  no 
more  upon  the  subject. 

At  this  time  the  party  could  hear  the  noise  of  heavy  foot- 
steps above  them.  They  were  those  of  the  Red  Man,  and 
sounded  with  slow  and  measured  tread.  They  listened  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer,  in  expectation  that  they  would 
cease.  There  was  no  pause:  the  steps  continued,  and 
seemed  to  indicate  that  the  person  was  amusing  himself  by 
walking  up  and  down  the  room. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  multiplicity  of  feel- 
ings which  agitated  the  minds  of  the  company.  Fear,  sur- 
prise, anger  and  curiosity,  ruled  them  by  turns,  and  kept 
them  incessantly  upon  the  rack.  There  was  something  mys- 
terious in  the  visitor  who  had  just  left  them — something  which 
they  could  not  fathom — something  unaccountable.  "Who 
could  he  be?"  This  was  the  question  that  each  put  to  the 
other,  but  no  one  could  give  anything  like  a  rational  answer. 

Meanwhile  the  evening  wore  on  apace,  and  though  the 
bell  of  the  parish  church  hard  by  sounded  the  tenth  hour,  no 
one  seemed  inclined  to  take  the  hint  to  depart.  Even  the 
parson  heard  it  without  regard,  to  such  a  pitch  was  his  curi- 
osity excited.  About  this  time  also  the  sky,  which  had 
hitherto  been  tolerably  clear,  began  to  be  overclouded.  Dis- 
tant peals  of  thunder  were  heard ;  and  thick  sultry  drops  of 
rain  pattered  at  intervals  against  the  casement  of  the  inn : 
everything  seemed  to  indicate  a  tempestuous  evening.     But 


THE    RED    MAN.  65 

the  storm  which  threatened  to  rage  without  was  unnoticed. 
Though  the  drops  fell  heavily;  though  gleams  of  lightning 
flashed  by,  followed  by  the  report  of  distant  thunder,  and  the 
winds  began  to  hiss  and  whistle  among  the  trees  of  the  neigh- 
boring cemetery,  yet  all  these  external  sign's  of  elementary 
tumult  were  as  nothing  to  the  deep,  solemn  footsteps  of  the 
Red  Man.  There  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  his  walkiner.  An 
hour  had  he  paced  up  and  down  the  chamber  without  the  least 
interval  of  repose,  and  he  was  still  engaged  in  this  occupa- 
tion as  at  first.  In  this  there  was  something  incredibly  mys- 
terious; and  the  party  below,  notwithstanding  their  numbers, 
felt  a  vague  and  indescribable  dread  beginning  to  creep  over 
them.  The  more  they  reflected  upon  the  character  of  the 
stranger,  the  more  unnatural  did  it  appear.  The  redness  of 
his  hair  and  complexion,  and,  still  more,  the  fiery  hue  of  his 
garments,  struck  them  with  astonishment.  But  this  was  little 
to  the  freezing  and  benumbing  glance  of  his  eye,  the  strange 
tones  of  his  voice,  and  his  miraculous  birth  on  the  borders  of 
the  Red  Sea.  There  was  now  no  longer  any  smoking  in  the 
kitchen.  The  subjects  which  occupied  their  minds  were  of 
too  engrossing  a  nature  to  be  treated  with  levity;  and  they 
drew  their  chairs  closer,  with  a  sort  of  irresistible  and  in- 
stinctive attraction. 

While  these  things  were  going  on,  the  bandy-legged  hostler 
entered,  in  manifest  alarm.  He  came  to  inform  his  master 
that  the  stranger's  horse  had  gone  mad,  and  was  kicking  and 
tearing  at  everything  around,  as  if  he  would  break  his  manger 
in  pieces.  Here  a  loud  neighing  and  rushing  were  heard  in 
the  stable.  "Ay,  there  he  goes,"  continued  he.  "I  believe 
the  devil  is  in  the  beast,  if  he  is  not  the  old  enemy  himself. 
Ods,  master,  if  you  saw  his  eyes:  they  are  like — " 

"What  are  they  like?"  demanded  the  landlord.  "Ay, 
what  are  they  like?"  exclaimed  the  rest  with  equal  impa- 
tience. 

"Ods,  if  they  an't  like  burning  coals!"    ejaculated  the 

6- 


QQ  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

hostler,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  and  squeezing  himself  in 
among  the  others,  on  a  chair  which  stood  hard  by.  His  in- 
formation threw  fresh  alarm  over  the  company,  and  they  were 
more  agitated  and  confused  than  ever. 

During  the  whole  of  this  time  the  sound  of  walking  over- 
head never  ceased  for  one  moment.  The  heavy  tread  was 
unabated:  there  was  not  the  least  interval  of  repose,  nor 
could  a  pendulum  have  been  more  regular  in  its  motions. 
Had  there  been  any  relaxation,  any  pause,  any  increase,  or 
any  diminution  of  rapidity  in  the  footsteps,  they  would  have 
been  endurable ;  but  there  was  no  such  thing.  The  same 
deadening,  monotonous,  stupefying  sound  continued  like 
clockwork,  to  operate  incessantly  above  their  heads.  Nor 
was  there  any  abatement  of  the  storm  without;  the  wind 
blowing  among  the  trees  of  the  cemetery  in  a  sepulchral 
moan ;  the  rain  beating  against  the  panes  of  glass  with  the 
impetuous  loudness  of  hail ;  and  lightning  and  thunder  flash- 
ing and  pealing  at  brief  intervals  through  the  murky  firma- 
ment. The  noise  of  the  elements  was  indeed  frightful,  and 
it  was  heightened  by  the  voice  of  the  sable  steed  like  that  of 
a  spirit  of  darkness;  but  the  whole,  as  we  have  just  hinted, 
was  as  nothing  to  the  deep,  solemn,  mysterious  treading  of 
the  Red  Man. 

Innumerable  were  their  conjectures  concerning  the  cha- 
racter of  this  personage.  It  has  been  mentioned  that  the 
landlady  conceived  him  at  first  to  be  a  traveling  packman, 
the  landlord  a  French  spy,  and  the  exciseman  a  conjurer. 
Now  their  opinions  were  wholly  changed,  and  they  looked 
upon  him  as  something  a  great  deal  worse.  The  parson,  in 
the  height  of  his  learning,  regarded  him  as  an  emanation  of 
the  tempter  himself;  and  in  this  he  wTas  confirmed  by  the 
erudite  opinion  of  the  schoolmaster.  As  to  the  hostler,  he 
could  say  nothing  about  the  man,  but  he  was  willing  to  stake 
his  professional  knowledge  that  his  horse  was  kith  and  kin  to 


THE    RED   MAN.  67 

the  evil  one.  Such  were  the  various  doctrines  promulgated  in 
the  kitchen  of  the  Black  Swan. 

"If  he  be  like  other  men,  how  could  he  anticipate  me,  as 
he  did,  in  what  I  was  going  to  say?"  observed  the  parson. 

"Born  on  the  borders  of  the  Red  Sea!"  ejaculated  the 
landlord. 

"Heard  ye  how  he  repeated  to  us  what  we  were  talking 
about  during  his  absence  in  the  stable?"  remarked  the  ex- 
ciseman. 

"And  how  he  knew  that  I  was  a  pedagogue  ?"  added  the 
schoolmaster. 

"And  how  he  called  on  me  by  my  name,  although  he  never 
saw  nor  heard  of  me  before?"  said  the  hostler  in  conclusion. 
Such  a  mass  of  evidence  was  irresistible.  It  was  impossible 
to  overlook  the  results  to  which  it  naturally  led. 

"If  more  proof  is  wanting,"  resumed  the  parson  after  a 
pause,  "  only  look  to  his  dress.  What  Christian  would  think 
of  traveling  about  the  country  in  red  ?  It  is  a  type  of  the  hell- 
fire  from  which  he  is  sprung." 

"Did  you  observe  his  hair  hanging  down  his  back  like  a 
bunch  of  carrots?"  asked  the  exciseman. 

"Such  a  diabolical  glance  in  his  eye!"  said  the  school- 
master. 

"Such  a  voice!"  added  the  landlord.  "It  is  like  the 
sound  of  a  cracked  clarionet." 

"His  feet  are  not  cloven,"  observed  the  landlady. 

"No  matter,"  exclaimed  the  landlord;  "the  devil,  when 
he  chooses,  can  have  as  good  legs  as  his  neighbors." 

"Better  than  some  of  them,"  quoth  the  lady,  looking  pee- 
vishly at  the  lower  limbs  of  her  husband. 

Meanwhile  the  incessant  treading  continued  unabated, 
although  two  long  hours  had  passed  since  its  commencement. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  cessation  to  the  sound,  while  out 
of  doors  the  storm  raged  with  violence,  and  in  the  midst  of 


68  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

it  the  hideous  neighing  and  stamping  of  the  black  horse  were 
heard  with  pre-eminent  loudness.  At  this  time  the  fire  of  the 
kitchen  began  to  burn  low.  The  sparkling  blaze  was  gone, 
and  in  its  stead  nothing  but  a  dead  red  lustre  emanated  from 
the  grate.  One  candle  had  just  expired,  having  burned  down 
to  the  socket.  Of  the  one  which  remained  the  unsnufFed 
wick  was  nearly  three  inches  in  length,  black  and  crooked 
at  the  point,  and  standing  like  a  ruined  tower  amid  an  en- 
velopment of  sickly  yellow  flame ;  while  around  the  fire's 
equally  decaying  lustre  sat  the  frightened  coterie,  narrowing 
their  circle  as  its  brilliancy  faded  away,  and  eyeing  each 
other  like  apparitions  amidst  the  increasing  gloom. 

At  this  time  the  clock  of  the  steeple  struck  the  hour  of 
midnight,  and  the  tread  of  the  stranger  suddenly  ceased. 
There  was  a  pause  for  some  minutes — afterwards  a  rustling 
— then  a  noise  as  of  something  drawn  along  the  floor  of  his 
room.  In  a  moment  thereafter  his  door  opened;  then  it  shut 
with  violence,  and  heavy  footsteps  were  heard  trampling  down 
the  stair.  The  inmates  of  the  kitchen  shook  with  alarm  as 
the  tread  came  nearer.  They  expected  every  moment  to 
behold  the  Red  Man  enter,  and  stand  before  them  in  his 
native  character.  The  landlady  fainted  outright ;  the  excise- 
man followed  her  example:  the  landlord  gasped  in  an  agony 
of  terror:  and  the  schoolmaster  uttered  a  pious  ejaculation 
for  the  behoof  of  his  soul.  Doctor  Poundtext  was  the  only 
one  who  preserved  any  degree  of  composure.  He  managed, 
in  a  trembling  voice,  to  call  out  "Avaunt,  Satan!  I  exorcise 
thee  from  hence  to  the  bottom  of  the  Red  Sea!" 

"I-  am  going  as  fast  as  I  can,"  said  the  stranger,  as  he 
passed  the  kitchen-door  on  his  way  to  the  open  air.  His 
voice  aroused  the  whole  conclave  from  their  stupor.  They 
started  up,  and  by  a  simultaneous  effort  rushed  to  the  window. 
There  they  beheld  the  tall  figure  of  a  man  enveloped  in  a 
black  cloak,  walking  across  the  yard  on  his  way  to  the  stable. 
He  had  on  a  broad-brimmed,  low-crowned  hat,  top-boots, 


THE    RED   MAN.  69 

with  enormous  spurs,  and  carried  a  gigantic  whip  in  one 
hand,  and  a  portmanteau  in  the  other.  He  entered  the  stable, 
remained  there  about  three  minutes,  and  came  out  leading 
forth  his  fiery  steed  thoroughly  accoutred.  In  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  he  got  upon  his  back,  waved  his  hand  to  the  com- 
pany, who  were  surveying  him  through  the  window,  and, 
clapping  spurs  to  his  charger,  galloped  off  furiously,  with  a 
hideous  and  unnatural  laugh,  through  the  midst  of  the  storm. 
On  going  up  stairs  to  the  room  which  the  devil  had  honored 
with  his  presence,  the  landlord  found  that  his  infernal  majesty 
had  helped  himself  to  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  upon, 
having  broken  into  his  desk  and  carried  off  twenty-five  gui- 
neas of  king's  money,  a  ten  pound  Bank  of  England  note, 
and  sundry  articles,  such  as  seals,  snuff-boxes,  &c.  Since 
that  time  he  has  not  been  seen  in  these  quarters,  and  if  he 
should,  he  will  do  well  to  beware  of  Doctor  Poundtext,  who 
is  a  civil  magistrate  as  well  as  a  minister,  and  who,  instead 
of  exorcising  him  to  the  bottom  of  the  Red  Sea,  may  perhaps 
exorcise  him  to  the  interior  of  Leicester  jail,  to  await  his 
trial  before  the  judges  of  the  midland  circuit. 


FOREST     CHANGES 


BT  DERWEXT  CONWAY. 


Spring  is  thy  youth,  and  winter  is  thy  age, — 
In  all  thy  changes  wonderful  or  fair : 
Spring  doth  exhaust  her  sweets,  winter  his  rage, 
On  thee,  thou  world  of  trees  that  spreadest  there. 
How  sweet  wThen  young,  how  venerable,  old ! 
May  breathes  on  thee, — and  lo!  thy  buds  unfold 
Their  virgin  blossoms  to  the  love-sick  air. 
And  summer  crowns  thee,  when  no  wandering  ray 
Can  through  thy  leafy  labyrinth  find  its  way ; 
While  all  day  long,  upon  thy  solitudes 
His  "chut,  chut,  chut,"  the  nightingale  intrudes. 
Now  autumn  sighs, — and  summer-green  turns  pale; 
And,  by-and-by,  thy  painted  leaves  hang  frail, 
While  in  thy  depths  Decay's  small  voice  is  heard, 
As  severed  leaves  drop  on  the  rustling  sward. 
Last — winter  comes  to  lay  thy  glories  bare ; 
Yet  thy  unbending  trunks  stand  proudly  there, — 
Huge,  gray,  and  gnarled,  with  their  fantastic  arms, 
Or  white,  and  sparkling  in  a  world  of  charms. 
Spring, — summer, — autumn, — winter,  rule  thee  ever: 
Thy  vesture  changeth — but  thy  beauty  never. 


wtmrnKKm''' 


ISABEL. 

A     TALE     OF     VENICE. 

BY  CHARLES  MACFAHLANE, 

The  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  dark  blue  hills  of  Priuli, 
and  lengthening  the  shadows  of  Venice  across  the  rippling 
waves  of  the  Adriatic,  when  two  Senators,  who  were  taking 
their  evening  promenade  on  one  of  the  murazzi  or  outer  ter- 
races which  the  industry  of  man  had  gained  and  secured 
from  a  formidable  element,  perceived  a  trim  galley  on  the 
purple  line  of  the  horizon,  pressing  forward  towards  the  city. 

"That  should  be  a  vessel  of  the  state,"  said  one  of  the 
Signors ;  "from  whence  may  she  be?" 

"Why  not  from  Constantinople?"  replied  his  companion; 
"it  is  time  that  some  of  that  conquering  expedition  should  be 
returned  to  the  'Winged  Lion.'  " 

"Saint  Mark  grant  that  it  prove  as  you  say! — But  she 
keeps  a  gallant  course,  and  will  soon  be  here  to  speak  for 
herself." 

The  two  Senators,  who,  though  both  advanced  in  years,  still 
glowed  with  that  patriotic  spirit  which  was  destined  to  raise 
the  low-sunk  islets  of  Venice  to  such  unprecedented  glory, 
leaned  against  a  parapet  wall  that  run  along  the  edge  of  the 
murazzi,  fixing  their  earnest  gaze  upon  the  vessel,  which, 
rapidly  advancing,  grew  in  magnitude  to  their  eyes  at  every 


72  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

minute.  She  had  been  laboring  on  with  all  her  long  oars ;  but 
now  the  sun  had  set,  and  an  evening  breeze,  a  vento  di  terra, 
from  the  lofty  mountains  of  Dalmatia,  roughened  the  gulf. 
The  sails,  already  set,  were  properly  bent  to  catch  the  favor- 
ing wind,  and  another  and  another  sail  was  hoisted,  until  the 
hulk  seemed  to  bear  the  proportion  to  them  that  the  body  of 
the  sea-fowl  does  to  its  widely  spreading  and  pure  white 
wings.  Nor  could  the  flight  of  the  gull  or  the  albatross  be 
well  more  rapid  or  direct  than  the  sailing  of  the  Venetian 
galley.  She  rushed  like  "a  thing  of  life"  over  the  darken- 
ing waves,  and  presently  the  white  foam  was  seen  curling 
and  the  phosphoric  light  flashing  before  her  impetuous  bow. 
As  she  neared,  the  last  gleams  of  day  showed  the  proud 
banner  of  the  republic  floating  on  her  lofty  stern. 

"My  Tebaldo — my  son,  my  only  one — fell  a  victim  to  the 
liquid  and  unextinguishable  fire  of  the  Greeks  at  the  first 
siege  of  their  heretical  capital — but  there  are  other  fathers 
than  me  in  Venice,  and  mothers  who  love  their  offspring,  and 
wives  who  adore  their  absent  husbands,  and  of  a  certainty 
for  some  of  these  there  is  great  joy.  The  galley  is  the  '  Cor- 
riere'  of  the  great  Dandolo,  the  swiftest  vessel  of  our  fleets, 
and  she  comes  the  harbinger  of  happiness  to  thousands.  The 
rest  will  not  be  far  behind." 

The  Senator  who  pronounced  these  words  began  in  a  sub- 
dued and  melancholy  tone  ;  but  his  voice  strengthened  and 
his  eye  flashed  as  he  continued,  losing  in  the  bliss  of  others, 
and  in  the  contemplation  of  the  glory  of  his  country,  the  sense 
of  his  private  and  irremediable  misfortune. 

"Viva  San  Marco!  Viva  la  Santa  Chiesa! — and  the  re- 
public of  Venice  that  has  placed  the  keys  of  Saint  Peter 
within  the  boasted  gates  of  Constantinople!"  exclaimed  the 
other  Senator. 

"Viva  San  Marco  and  the  Republic!"  rejoined  the  child- 
less man. 

Their  aged  voices  had  scarcely  ceased  to  vibrate  when  a 


ISABEL.  73 

loud,  continuous  shout — a  shout  of  transporting  joy  and  tri- 
umph, rose  from  the  deck  and  the  rigging  of  the  galley,  and 
made  itself  heard,  despite  of  distance  and  the  lash  and  roar 
of  the  waves  that  broke  in  foam  at  the  feet  of  the  two  Sena- 
tors. The  next  instant  that  soul-stirring  acclamation  was 
answered  by  another  shout  that  absolutely  smothered,  while 
it  lasted,  the  sounds  of  wind  and  wave;  and  turning  round, 
the  Senators  saw,  on  the  edges  of  other  terraces,  and  on  the 
scattered  islets  that  afforded  the  best  points  of  observation, 
the  mass  of  the  population  of  Venice,  gazing  like  themselves 
on  the  returning  galley.  In  an  instant  numerous  barks  were 
seen  to  glide  from  the  canali,  and,  dancing  in  fantastic  groups 
over  the  heaving  sea,  to  pull  with  strenuous  oars  towards  the 
ship ;  the  patriotism  or  the  more  private  affections  of  many, 
not  brooking  the  delay  of  a  few  minutes  which  would  see 
her  at  anchor  within  Venice. 

As  she  came  on,  with  the  breeze  that  still  freshened  singing- 
through  her  shrouds,  a  simultaneous  display  of  countless  blue 
lights  was  launched  from  her  deck  high  into  the  heavens, 
where  the  crescent  moon  with  "a  single  star  at  her  side" 
seemed  to  smile  at  these  testimonials  of  joy,  and  to  welcome 
the  wanderers  back  again.  The  mimics  of  heaven's  thun- 
ders, the  pealing  cannons,  were  not  yet  known ;  but  the  roar 
of  voices  that  again  rose  from  the  murazzi,  and  the  ship,  and 
the  boats  mid-way  between  them,  might  almost  equal  the 
rimbombo  of  artillery,  than  which  it  was  infinitely  more  replete 
with  meaning,  for  the  united  voices  of  thousands  distinctly 
syllabled  the  patriotic  cry,  which  was  still  "Viva  San  Marco 
e  la  citta  di  Venezia!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  while.  The  galley  now  surrounded 
by  the  barks  from  the  shore,  glided  round  one  of  the  islets 
which  had  intercepted  the  prospect,  and  presently  the  crew 
saw  all  the  low  houses  of  the  town,  with  the  clear  domestic 
lights  gleaming  from  their  lattices,  full  before  them.  The 
transport  that  then  bounded  in  the  hearts  of  the  wanderers,  the 
7 


74  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

shout  that  then  rose  from  the  galley  deck  must  have  been 
intense — 

"For  what  can  consecrate  the  joys  of  home, 
Like  one  glad  glance  from  ocean's  troubled  foam'?'' 

The  two  Senators  quitted  the  parapet,  and  repaired  with 
hasty  steps  to  the  galley-quay,  where  they  found  many  of 
their  order,  with  most  of  the  leading  citizens,  already  assem- 
bled, and  anxiously  waiting  to  speak  with  the  gallant  com- 
mander of  the  "Corriere."  Soon  the  welcome  vessel  stood 
with  her  prow  a  few  spans'  length  from  the  shore ;  and  anon, 
with  rapid  maneuver,  she  swung  round,  and  lay  with  her 
broad-side  against  the  edge  of  the  quay.  Another  shout  and 
cry  of  triumph,  and  the  captain  leaped  on  shore,  and  bowed 
before  the  senators  and  citizens  of  Venice. 

"Thou  art  welcome,  Sanuti,"  said  the  foremost  of  the 
company;  "thou  art  welcome  as  the  confirmer  of  good 
tidings,  but  doubly  welcome  as  a  hero  who  has  honored 
his  Venetian  blood  by  his  deeds  before  the  walls  of  Constan- 
tinople!" 

The  Captain  bowed  more  lowly  than  before.  "  The  Scampa- 
via  of  Zani  has  then  brought  in  safety  our  lord  the  Doge's 
dispatches  to  the  senate  of  Venice?"  inquired  he  modestly. 

"It  has  even  done  so  much,"  replied  the  senator;  "  and 
we  have  long  since  learned  that  the  winged  lion  is  flying  for 
the  second  time  over  the  walls  of  the  capital  of  the  East!" 

"And  long  may  it  there  fly!"  cried  Sanuti,  "  and  may  the 
sons  of  Venice  '  plant  the  lion' — the  standard  of  San  Marco 
and  the  Republic,  over  many  a  conquest  as  fair  as  this!" 

The  assembled  multitude  echoed  the  words  of  the  captain, 
and  the  air  was  rent  by  shouts  of  "  Pianta  hone!"  the  popu- 
lar war-cry,  which  was  indeed  destined  to  be  heard  on  many 
a  foreign  shore. 

"But,  Sanuti,"  resumed  the  Senator  who  had  already 
spoken,  "what  of  the  fleet? — A  portion  certainly  should  be 


ISABEL.  75 


at  Venice  ere  this,  were  it  but  to  lay  the  trophies  in  the  tem- 
ple of  our  Saint,  under  whom  our  arms  have  so  prospered." 
"I  left  the  fleet  to-day  at  noon — they  had  gained  the 
height  of  Cape  Torrella,  and  only  let  this  fair  breeze  blow  till 
midnight,  and  we  shall  see  them  at  the  rising  of  to-morrow's 


sun." 


This  news  spread  with  the  swiftness  of  lightning  through 
the  multitude,  and  thence  through  the  whole  city ;  and  the 
childless  Senator  had  predicted  aright  when  he  said  "that 
for  some  there  would  be  great  joy  in  Venice  on  this  night." 
There  was  indeed  too  much  joy — and  alas!  in  many  instances 
too  much  assured  sorrow,  or  harrowing  apprehension,  to  per- 
mit of  sleep.  The  affectionate  wife  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
kissed  the  little  slumberer  in  its  cradle,  or  assured  the  half 
forgetful  prattler  on  her  knee  that  to-morrow  he  should  see 
his  father ;  or  with  provident  care  she  turned  over  the  humble 
treasures  of  her  coffers,  to  select  fitting  raiment  for  her  long 
absent  spouse  ;  or  with  diligent  hands  she  prepared  the  re- 
storing condiments,  so  welcome  after  the  privations  of  a 
tedious  sea-voyage,  or  she  sought  the  draughts  for  the  wine- 
cup  which  "maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man."  The  fond 
mother,  whose  son  had  gone  to  the  East,  with  the  red-cross 
on  his  breast,  rested  not  on  her  pillow,  but  gazing  on  the 
flickering  lamp,  asked  a  thousand  times,  "Oh!  will  the  light 
of  to-morrow's  sun  show  me  my  boy  in  his  strength  and  his 
beauty — or  assure  me  that  the  light  of  life  has  for  ever  quitted 
his  eyes?"  The  betrothed  maiden,  or  she  who  had  cherished 
a  fond  passion,  paced  her  chamber  floor  with  hurried  steps, 
or,  gazing  out  of  her  casement  on  the  sea-waves,  sighed  to 
the  strong  winds  that  agitated  them  as  love  her  young  bosom 
— "And  will  he  come  with  the  morrow? — and  will  he  love 
me,  as  when  he  wentV 

That  short  summer  night  seemed  of  interminable  length  at 
Venice ;  but  the  morrow  came  at  last,  and  in  the  gray  horizon, 
at  the  very  point  where  the  "  Corriere"  had  first  appeared  on 


76  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

the  preceding  evening,  a  broad  white  sail  was  seen.     A  sail, 
and  another,  and  another,  rose  to  the  eye  from  that  sober  but 
brightening  line,  until  the  whole  fleet  was  in  view,  and  ad- 
vanced, the  orb  of  day  rising  in  their  rear,  like  a  vast  flock  of 
wild  swans,  glancing  their  long  white   necks  and  buoyant 
white  wings  in  the   golden  beams  of  morning.     In  the  city 
the  matin  summons  to  prayer  sounded  cheerfully  on  the  ear, 
and  in  each  Christian  temple  a  song  of  thanksgiving  succeeded 
the  words  of  supplication.     Our  story  is  laid  in  very  remote 
times;  but  it  was  not  until  these  religious  duties  were  per- 
formed, that  the  people  of  Venice  began  their  preparations 
for  the  triumphal  reception  of  their  home-wending  heroes,  or 
hastened  to  meet  the  objects  of  their  hearts'  warm  affections. 
But  when,  in  their  weakness  and  insufficiency,  they  had  paid 
their  due  to  heaven,  they  entered  on  the  business  of  life  with 
zeal,  and  the  city  was  agitated  from  one  end  to  the  other. 
Carpenters  and  other  artisans  were  employed  in  laying  stages 
for  the  warriors  to  tread  upon,  in  their  descent  from  the  victo- 
rious galleys,  or  in  erecting  platforms  whence  the  Venetian  fair 
might  wave  their  kerchiefs  to  the  brave,  or  galleries  whence 
the  musicians  might  hail  the  return  of  those  who  had  pre- 
vailed in  the  good  fight,  with  the  Lion  and  Saint  Mark  for 
their  aid !     Women  and  children  ran  to  gather  the  scanty 
supply  of  verdure  and  of  flowers  that  the  sea-girt  city  af- 
forded; but  others  were  dispatched  to  the  main  land,  to  draw 
the  laurel  and  the  rose  from  the  banks  of  the  Brenta. 

Inanimate  nature  seemed  to  partake  in  the  joy  and  triumph 
of  man,  and  a  bright  exhilarating  sun,  a  gay  blue  sky,  a  sea 
serene,  and  a  breeze  as  gentle  as  the  sigh  of  happy  love, 
were  propitious  to  Venice  and  her  day  of  rejoicing. 

Meanwhile  the  fleet  came  on,  spread  out  into  the  figure  of 
a  crescent.  Every  ship  was  distinctly  visible  through  that 
fine  transparent  atmosphere:  and  as  they  glided  over  the 
placid  waters  towards  their  place  of  rest,  the  appropriate 
banner  of  each  was  clearly  seen,  and  the  impatient  citizens 


ISABEL.  77 

on  shore  could  tell  the  particular  galley  In  which  had  sailed 
a  son,  a  brother  or  a  friend.  How  many  hearts  beat  at  this 
recognition.  "There  is  the  Stella!"  cried  an  old  man,  "my 
own  brave  boy  commands  there!"  "And  there  the  Spe- 
ranza!"  cried  another,  "and,  God  be  praised!  my  Fran- 
cesco's flag  still  floats  on  her  mast  head !"  Exclamations 
like  these,  and  the  eloquent  outpourings  of  natural  affection, 
were  heard  every  moment  to  proceed  from  the  congregated 
thousands,  whilst  the  speaking  faces,  the  expressive  Italian 
countenances  there  collected,  offered  to  the  eye  a  picture  on 
which  the  artist  might  have  dwelt  with  admiration  and  de- 
light. 

The  fleet  was  now  so  near  that  the  sounds  of  their  warlike 
music  were  heard,  and  every  detail,  to  use  the  language  of 
the  painter,  was  distinctly  made  out.  The  bright  and  painted 
shields  of  the  returning  knights  and  squires  were  arranged  on 
either  side  of  the  galleys ;  the  warriors  stood  on  the  deck  in 
their  armor  of  mail,  with  the  silver-inlaid  morion  on  their 
heads,  and  the  burnished  arms  in  their  hands — the  broad 
lance,  the  battle-axe,  and  the  steel-tipped  mace,  threw  back 
the  rays  of  the  sun  with  dazzling  brightness;  the  "winged 
lion,"  the  standard  of  the  republic,  flew  over  their  heads ; 
the  bannerets  of  the  patrician  families  of  Venice  floated  on 
the  elevated  stern-quarter  of  the  war-ships ;  whilst  the  prin- 
cipal galley  which  had  borne  the  "blind  old  Dandolo"  to  the 
scene  of  his  glory,  was  distinguished  by  a  vast  white  banner 
on  which  was  inscribed  in  letters  of  gold,  the  new,  the  proud, 
"the  singular  but  accurate  title"*  "of  lord  of  three-eighths 
of  the  Roman  Empire,"  assumed  by  the  conquering  Doge, 
and  afterwards  retained  by  the  Venetian  republic! 

The  instruments  of  the  musicians,  of  which  only  the  more 

*  See  Hallam's  History  of  the  Middle  Ages,  vol.  i.  chap.  3,  part  ii. 

f  The  style  of  the  Doges  of  Venice  afterwards  was,  "Dominus  quarlae 
partis  et  dimidiae  imperii  Romani."  And  this  remained  unchanged  till  Gio- 
vanni Delfino,  who  was  elected  in  1 


78  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

clangous,  as  the  cymbal  or  the  trumpet,  had  at  first  been 
heard,  now  were  all  mingled  and  audible ;  with  each  passing 
moment  they  waxed  louder  and  louder,  until  they  burst  on 
the  ear  with  an  overpowering  peal — an  air  of  war  and  triumph, 
to  which  the  voices  of  the  warriors  and  mariners  formed  an 
accompaniment.  Then  there  rose  to  heaven  a  shout  from 
those  on  shore  that  made  Venice  to  ring  through  her  hundred 
islets,  and  the  cymbal  and  the  harp,  the  shrill  trump,  the 
spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife,  gave  back  a  re- 
sponse to  the  galleys  that,  "  gilded  by  the  sun  and  reflected 
by  the  waters,"  now  fast  approached  land. 

On  shore,  as   on  the   sea,  the   spectacle  was  imposing. 
Venice,  indeed,  was  not  yet  the  splendid  city  that  claimed 
the  world's  admiration ;  she  could  not  yet  boast  that  accumu- 
lation of  ancient   and  modern  art  which  was  afterwards  to 
attract  the  stranger  from  many  a  distant  land;  but  so  early 
as  this,  or  at  the  commencement  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
Venice  was  a  city  of  importance — as  remarkable  as  she  ever 
could  be,  from  her  peculiar  situation — even  beautiful  and 
stately  if  compared  with  the   cities,  her   contemporaries,  in 
any  other  part  of  the  world  than  Italy.     The  Campanile,  or 
lofty  tower  of  St.  Mark,  did  not  yet  pierce  the  clouds,  nor  did 
the  temple  then  offer  to  the  observer's  eye  that  striking  mix- 
ture of  Greek  and  Saracenic  architecture,  those  long-extend- 
ing rows  of  arches,  that  forest  of  columns,  all  of  precious 
marble,  and  beautiful  mosaics,  and  that  general  richness  and 
vastness  which  resulted  from  after-ages  of  commerce,  wealth 
and  genius.    "But  the  bones  of  the  blessed  Apostle, — of  the 
Evangelist  whose  name,  says  a  Venetian  historian,  is  asso- 
ciated with  all  the  glories  of  the  republic,  had  reposed  there 
ever  since  the  eighth  century ;  and  the  devotion  of  the  Vene- 
tians had  raised  over  those  sacred  relics  an  edifice  really  vast 
in  dimensions,  and  not  destitute  of  beauty.     The  obelisks 
of  granite,  and  the   elaborately  sculptured  pillars   stood  not 
yet  in  the  piazza  or  the  piazzetta;  the  horses  of  bronze — 


ISABEL.  79 

those  obsequious  followers  in  the  train  of  victory — those 
records  of  the  mutability  of  fortune,  stood  not  yet  over  the 
door  of  the  temple,  though  they  were  soon  to  be  there,  for  it 
was  this  returning  fleet  that  brought  them  as  a  trophy  from 
captured  Constantinople.  In  fme,  Egypt  and  Syria,  Greece 
and  the  isles  of  Greece,  had  not  yet  been  conquered  and  de- 
spoiled of  their  glorious  remains  to  ornament  the  proud  "Sea 
Cybele;"  but  at  the  same  time,  some  objects  of  art  and 
antiquity  had  been  imported ;  some  improvement  from  the 
study  of  them  had  been  introduced  in  architecture  and  sculp- 
ture ;  and  Italian  genius,  destined  in  after-centuries  to  rival 
that  of  Hellas,  had  begun  to  dawn,  and  Italian  taste  to  show 
itself  in  the  construction  of  their  habitations,  their  churches, 
and  public  edifices. 

It  might  be  said,  perhaps,  that  at  the  epoch  of  our  tale, 
Venice  was  about  equi-distant  from  what  she  was  at  her 
humble  origin, — a  collection  of  low  huts  scattered  on  the 
sea-lashed  sand-banks  and  rocks,  whose  poor  inhabitants, 
Cassiodorus,  the  minister  of  Theodoric,  compared  to  "water- 
fowl who  had  fixed  their  nests  on  the  bosom  of  the  waves" — 
and  what  she  became  after  the  sixteenth  century,  when  the 
wealth  of  the  East  had  been  poured  in  her  lap,  and  the  genius 
of  Palladio  and  others  had  filled  her  with  beauty. 

But  the  moral  picture  offered  to  contemplation  by  Venice 
at  that  period,  was,  perhaps,  far  more  interesting  and  worthy 
of  admiration.  In  Venice  "the  art  and  spirit  of  commercial 
industry"  had  revived,  and  was  then  extending  its  Briarean 
arms  to  every  shore  of  the  Mediterranean.  On  the  perilous 
career  of  conquest  she  had  entered  with  great  eclat,  and, 
considering  her  origin  and  position,  the  influence  she  exer- 
cised on  the  politics  of  the  south  and  east  of  Europe,  was 
astonishing.  The  banners  of  three  subject  nations  did  not 
yet  float  before  St.  Mark's ;  but  an  emperor  had  knelt  there 
— a  pope  had  been  the  guest  of  the  republic,  and  his  grati- 
tude had  invested  Venice  with  the  nuptial  ring  with  which, 


30  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

on  each  succeeding  year,  she  was  to  espouse  the  Adriatic — 
which  she  was  to  wear  as  the  absolute  mistress  and  sovereign 

of  the  seas.* 

The  glorious  dawn  of  liberty  among  the  neighbors  of  Ven- 
ice, the  Lombard  cities— that  dawn  that  was  destined  never 
to  reach  its  meridian  splendor,  but  to  expire  in  the  night  of  a 
despicable  and  enduring  slavery — was  even  then  a  faint  light 
compared  to  that  which  emanated  from  the  liberal  institutions 
of  the  republic,  where  a  hard-hearted  oligarchy,  anxious  indeed 
for  the  glory  of  the  state,  but  indifferent  to  human  suffering 
and  crime,  had  not  yet  seized  absolute  power,  nor  sent  its 
victims  in  mystery  across  the  "Bridge  of  Sighs."  The  city 
of  the  isles  might  at  this  period  be  compared  to  a  hero,  who, 
still  young,  had  gallantly  advanced  on  the  career  of  glory ; 
whose  aspirations  were  lofty,  whose  shield  was  not  bedimmed 
with  blood ;  who  had  not  yet  acquired  and  abused  (alas !  why 
should  one  be  consequent  on  the  other!)  extensive  and  un- 
controlled power:  to  whose  future  successes  one  might  look 
with  confidence;  and  we,  at  the  distance  of  centuries,  may 
almost  partake  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  old  chroniclers  who 
record  the  triumph  of  her  conquering  sons  returned  from 
Constantinople. 

The  piazetta,  which  is  situated  by  the  side  of  the  church 
of  Saint  Mark,  then  contained  the  principal  edifices  of  the 
republic  ;  and  it  was  here  the  knights  and  the  captains  of  the 
galleys,  that  had  now  come  to  anchor  close  to  the  quay,  de- 

*  The  emperor  was  Frederic  Barbarossa ;  the  Pope,  Alexander  III.  Any 
Italian  history,  or  the  notes  to  the  4th  Canto  of  Childe  Harold,  will  acquaint 
the  reader  with  these  singular  proceedings.  The  following  are  said  by  a 
Venetian  historian  to  be  the  words  employed  by  the  pope  in  presenting  the 
ring  to  the  Doge,  in  the  presence  of  all  the  people.  "  Use  it,  0  Venetians,  as 
a  chain  wherewith  to  keep  the  sea  subjected  to  your  dominion.  Espouse  it 
with  this  ring  every  year,  and  every  year  on  the  same  day  let  the  celebration 
of  the  espousals  be  renewed,  in  order  that  posterity  may  know  that  the  arms 
of  Venice  have  acquired  the  empire  of  the  waves,  and  that  the  sea  ought  to 
be  obedient  to  her,  even  as  the  bride  to  the  husband." 


ISABEL.  81 

scended  by  stairs  and  platforms  prepared  for  them  and  covered 
with  laurels  and  flowers,  banners  and  silks  of  Tyrian  dye — 
and  it  was  here  that  anxious  feet  again  touched  their  native 
soil,  and  their  relatives   and  friends   received  them  to  their 
passionate  embrace.     As  one  by  one  they  stepped  on  shore, 
the  people  rent  the  air  with  their  acclamations  ;  the  signiors 
of  the   republic,  in   an  open  balcony,  bowed  to  them,  as  a 
herald  repeated  their  distinguished  names ;  whilst  the  bands  of 
music  pealed  the  notes  of  triumph,  and  the  fair  daughters  of 
Venice  "looked  and  smiled  a  welcome."     The  general  pic- 
ture of  joy  and  grief— and  grief  there  was  in  the  midst  of  all 
these  rejoicings,  for  many  returned  not  to  bless  the  eyes  of 
affection,  but  remained  in  the  country  they  had  conquered, 
and  many  had  sped  to  those  regions  whence  there  is  no  return 
— this  general  picture  would  be  far  too  vast   even  to  be 
sketched  here,  and  thus  we  will  attach  ourselves  to  the  for- 
tunes and  feelings  of  one  who  figured  in  this  day's  pageantry. 
Gherardo  was  the  only  son  of  the  patrician  Zani,  and  the 
most  gallant  youth  of  Venice.     His  love  of  military  glory 
must  have  been  great,  for  when  the  Doge,  the  incomparable 
Enrico  Dandolo,  invited  him  to  follow  his  banner  to  the  East, 
he  was  betrothed  to   Isabel  Celsi,  as  distinguished  for  her 
beauty  as  he  for  his  valor.     Yet,  on  the  threshold  of  the  hy- 
meneal temple,  he  did  not  hesitate ;  he  would  go  where  glory 
and  his  countrymen  summoned  him ;  when  the  Doge's  ex- 
ploits were  achieved,  he  would  return  to  Venice,  and,  more 
deserving  of  her,  lay  the  laurels  at  the  feet  of  his  young 
bride.     He  had  been,  he  had  prospered — Constantinople  had 
witnessed  his  valor — and  now,  returned,  the  piazzetta  echoed 
with  the  name  of  Gherardo.     He  had  received  the  embrace 
of  his  aged  father  without  alarm  at  his  tears — for  over-wrought 
joy  will  weep  even  as  sorrow  does  ;  he  had  been  pressed  in 
the  arms  of  the  friends  of  his  house  and  his  infancy ;  and  he 
now  advanced  to  a  gentler  circle,  composed  of  his  female 
relatives  and  friends,  who,  stationed  at  a  balcony,  murmured 


82  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY.   ■ 

the  hero's  name,  and  his  welcome  back  to  Venice.  But, 
what  meant  the  omission  ? — Isabel  was  not  among  them — 
Isabel,  his  spouse,  was  not  there  to  welcome  him  with  eye 
and  tongue.  His  voice  trembled  as  he  hurriedly  asked  where 
she  was.  An  inconsiderate  and  cruel  voice  in  the  crowd 
answered,  "  Isabel  is  no  more !  she  sleeps  with  her  father  in 
the  church  of  Saint  Theodore."* 

"No  more!"  moaned  the  young  warrior,  and  his  flushed 
face  became  pale  as  the  monumental  marble,  and,  but  for 
his  friends,  he  had  fallen  to  the  earth  like  one  struck  by 
lightning.  When  he  partially  recovered  from  the  first  shock, 
he  again  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ladies'  balcony ;  she  was 
indeed  not  there — where  she  must  have  been,  had  life  and 
love  animated  her.  That  absence  confirmed  the  truth  of 
the  ill-omened  voice  ;  his  eyes  dropped  despondingly  to  the 
earth,  where,  now  in  his  youth  and  his  glory,  he  could  have 
wished  to  see  a  grave  open  for  himself.  His  old  father  fell 
on  his  neck  and  wept  aloud. 

For  some  moments  the  mind  of  Gherardo  wandered,  and 
his  soul  was  benumbed ;  but  the  sight  of  Alessio,  the  brother 
of  Isabel,  advancing  through  the  crowd,  recalled  him  to 
consciousness  and  anguish.  "Is  it  even  as  they  say  ?"  cried 
he  hoarsely,  and  stretching  out  his  hand  to  his  friend.  Alessio 
grasped  his  hand  with  one  of  his,  and  dashing  away  the 
tears  from  his  averted  face  with  the  other,  he  replied,  in  a 
suffocated  voice,  "  Alas !  and  alas !  it  is  even  so — Isabel 
expired  yesterday  ;  and  as  the  galley,  your  precursor,  was 
appearing,  my  sister  was  on  her  road  to  the  sepulchre !" 

Such  irremediable  woe  where  so  much  bliss  was  expected 
— such  an  awakening  from  all  the  ecstatic  dreams  and  aspira- 
tions that  had  given  him  strength  in  battle,  and  cheered  him 
over  the  tedious  or  stormy  waves — such  a  return — such  a 
welcome — such  an  end  to  all  his  fond  and  passionate  hopes 

*  St.  Theodore  was  the  patron  saint  of  Venice  before  St.  Mark. 


ISABEL.  83 

was  not  to  be  supported.  With  a  deep  groan  he  swooned 
away,  and  the  young  hero,  so  lately  the  happiest  among  the 
happy — the  most  animated  where  all  were  animated,  was 
borne  in  a  lifeless  state  to  the  sad  halls  of  his  father. 

It  was  long  ere  he  returned  to  life  and  reason  ;  and  oh,  how 
dreadful  was  his  return  to  the  latter !    He  would  have  given 
the  world  for  some  opiate  or  drug  capable  of  repelling  thought 
and  recollection.     He  closed  his  eyes  to  the  gray  light  of  the 
sun — he  would  have  shut  out  its  rays  for  ever !    He  was  deaf 
to  the  assiduous  advice  and  consolation  of  his  friends  who 
thronged   about  him — he  was   mute,  too,  and   asked  not  a 
single  question  as  to  the  malady  or  decease  of  his  bride. 
Was  it  not  enough  to  know  that  she  was  for  ever  torn  from 
him? — dead! — what  mattered  the  mode  or  the  circumstances 
that  had  led  to  such  a  fearful  result  ?    At  last  he  spoke,  but 
it  was  only  to  request  his  father  that  he  might  be  left  alone. 
The  afflicted  Signior,  with  words  of  affectionate  condolence, 
and  prayers  that  his  son  would  raise  his  thoughts  to  the  con- 
templation of  that  Being  in  whose  hands  were  life  and  death, 
and  to  whose  omnipotent  will  it  was  duty  to  submit,  left  the 
room  with  tears,  and  was  followed  by   all  the  company. — 
When,  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  own  chamber,  Ghe- 
rardo  looked  around  him,  he  felt  more  than  ever  the  extent  of 
his  loss.     He  rose  from  the  couch  on  which  he  had  been 
reclining,  and  advanced  to  a  curtained  recess  at  the  end  of  the 
room — he  drew  the  curtains — the   -sight   was   a   cruel  one! 
There  was  the  talamo,  or  splendid  nuptial  bed  his  friends  had 
prepared  and  decorated  for  his  return — there,  on  the  rich  vel- 
vet and  the  flowing  silk,  were  the  embroidered  rose-wreaths 
mixed  with  the  laurel-crowns,  and  the  initials  of  his  name 
entwined  with  those  of  his  Isabel.     And  hungry  death  wTas 
feeding  on  her  roses,  and  her  name,  in  the  mouths  of  men, 
had  become  a  note  of  woe — in  his  ear  a  sound  of  despair ! 
He  threw  himself  on  the  ground  at  the  bed's  foot,  and,  bury- 


84  THE  OFFERING. OF  BEAUTY. 

ino-  his  burning  face  in  his  hands,  gave  vent  for  the  first  time 
to  a  copious  flood  of  tears. 

As  thus  he  lay,  humbled  in  the  dust,  with  all  his  thoughts 
in  the  dark  and  narrow  grave,  the  sun  shone  brightly  on 
Venice,  and  her  thronging  thousands,  replete  with  joy,  sang 
their  songs  of  triumph  and  shouted  the  names  of  their  gallant 
warriors  and  the  captains  of  their  galleys.  It  could  not  be 
that  his  should  be  forgotten,  for  who  had  borne  himself  more 
bravely  than  he?  and  as  a  crowd  passed  in  front  of  his  pater- 
nal abode,  their  united  voices  proclaimed  "Gherardo!  Ghe- 
rardo !  Long  life  and  glory  to  Gherardo,  the  soldier  of  St. 
Mark!"  The  sounds  struck  his  ears,  but  now  they  could 
elicit  only  a  bitter  smile. 

The  passing  hours  did  not  restore  tranquillity  to  the  bereft 
bridegroom;  but,  as  the  shades  of  night  descended,  a  wild 
idea, — an  uncontrollable  impulse  invaded  him.  "  And  shall 
my  fond  eyes  obtain  not  a  last  glance  of  that  being  of  love  and 
beauty?  Shall  my  Isabel,"  reasoned  the  passionate  youth  (if 
such  movement  of  the  feelings  can  be  called  reason) — "  my 
betrothed,  be  consumed  by  vile  worms,  and  I  not  see  the 
loveliness  she  must  have  carried  to  the  grave?  She  died  but 
yesterday — she  must  still  be  beautiful ! — Yes  !  I  will  see  her 
once  again  !  I  will  once  again  press  those  lips,  though  they 
be  cold— cold!" 

At  a  late  hour  he  secretly  left  his  father's  house  for  the 
well-known  church — alas !  he  was  to  have  been  married  there! 
A  handful  of  gold  gained  over  the  sacristano,  who  unlocked 
the  door  of  the  temple,  and  retired.  Gherardo  stood  alone,  a 
few  paces  from  Isabel's  tomb.  A  few  lamps  burned  here 
and  there,  dimly,  before  the  effigies  of  the  Virgin  Mother  and 
of  the  most  conspicuous  saints ;  the  moon  shed  an  uncertain 
light  through  the  painted  glass  of  the  lofty  and  narrow  Gothic 
windows;  but  away  among  the  massy  columns  and  through 
the  long  aisles  of  the  church,  there  fell  the  obscurity  of  "the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  ;"  and  sounds  there  were  none, 


ISABEL.  85 

save  the  fast-coming  sighs  of  the  hapless  lover.  The  hour, 
the  spot,  the  awful  stillness,  were  all  calculated  to  overpower 
the  mind  with  indescribable  emotion;  the  age  was  one  of 
extreme  superstition,  and  our  young  soldier's  philosophy  had 
not  taught  him  to  rise  superior  to  the  popular  credence ;  the 
state  of  his  feelings  too — and  nothing  is  more  imaginative  or 
creative  of  ideal  horrors  than  a  certain  stage  of  grief — con- 
tributed to  delude  the  senses ;  and  as  the  cressets  trembled, 
and  the  moon-light,  strangely  colored  by  the  stained  glass 
through  which  it  passed,  gleamed  now  brighter  and  now 
fainter — now  resting  on  this  object  of  somewhat  grotesque 
architecture  of  the  church,  now  on  that — he  saw,  or  fancied 
the  spirits  of  the  departed  rising  one  by  one,  and  mournfully 
waving  their  hands,  as  if  warning  him  against  a  sacrilegious 
intrusion  on  the  regions  of  the  dead.  Through  the  postern 
door  by  which  he  had  entered,  and  which  the  sacristano  had 
left  ajar,  there  suddenly  blew  a  gust  of  the  fresh  night-breeze, 
that,  moaning  among  the  columns  and  over  the  hollow  marble 
pavement  of  the  church,  sounded  in  his  ear  like  a  voice,  but 
not  of  earth — like  the  united  lamentations  of  sad,  or  guilt- 
burdened  spirits.  He  clung  to  one  of  the  pillars  for  support, 
and  was  for  some  moments  incapable  of  motion.  His  natural 
courage  and  the  intenseness  of  the  feeling  and  purpose  that 
had  brought  him  thither,  soon,  however,  came  to  his  aid,  and 
he  strode  with  hasty  steps  to  the  cappella,  or  lateral  recess 
of  the  temple,  beneath  which  was  the  tomb  of  his  bride's 
family.  Here,  in  this  deep  recess,  the  moon  could  not  shed 
a  beam  ;  but  he  was  guided  to  the  door  of  the  sepulchre  by 
a  lamp  that  flickered  on  the  altar  of  the  cappella.  Hurried, 
breathless,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  that  door ;  massy,  and 
bound  with  heavy  iron  and  with  bronze,  it  required  a  great 
effort  to  open  it — he  pressed  his  muscular  shoulder  against 
it — it  receded ;  but  as  it  turned  on  its  unwilling  hinges,  it 
produced  a  hoarse  rumbling  sound  that  echoed  like  thunder 
in  the  vault  beneath,  and  caused  him  to  start  back  with  trem- 
8 


86  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

bling  limbs  and  cold  sweat  on  his  brow.     Again,  however, 
desperation — love — the  determination  to  see  the  lifeless  form 
of  his  beloved,  conquered  his  awe   and  the  repugnance  for 
disturbing  the  peace  of  the  grave ;  yet  he  paused,  ere  he 
plunged  into  the  horrible,  palpable  obscurity  that  lay  beyond 
the  door  of  the  tomb,  and,  crossing  himself,  murmured  a 
prayer  to  the  blessed  Virgin  who  saw  his  woe  and  might  pity 
or  pardon  his  sacrilegious  audacity.    He  then  rushed  down  a 
few  steps  through  a  short  dark  passage, — and,  himself  like  a 
spectre,  entered  the    narrow  chamber  of  death.     A  lamp 
beneath  a  crucifix  burned  at  the  head  of  the  avello  or  sarco- 
phagus of  Isabel,  and  a  grated  window  near  the  roof  of  the 
vault  admitted  the  rays  of  the  moon,  that  fell  almost  perpen- 
dicularly on  that  cold  white  marble.     He  grasped  at  once 
the  heavy'  cover  of  the   coffin — had  he  hesitated,  he  might 
have  been  effectually  deterred  from  completing  his  sad,  wild 
enterprise.     His  nervous  arms  removed  the  weight,  and  then 
his  eyes  rested  on  the  shrouded  form  of  his  Isabel,  whose 
head  was  enveloped  in  a  veil  of  pure  white,  and  her  "decent 
limbs  composed"  beneath  an  ample  white  robe.     His  brain 
reeled  at  the  sight — and  the  lamp  which  he  had  grasped  fell 
from  his  hand.     When  he  recovered  strength  to  proceed,  the 
light  from  the  grated  window  fell  full  in  the  open  coffin;  and, 
as  his  trembling  hands  withdrew  the  veil,  a  clear  broad  ray 
of  the  moon  illumined  the  face  of  his  lovely  bride.  *  *    :  And 
could  this  be  death? — Why  even  thus  she  looked  when  life 
and  love  coursed  through  her  young  veins ! — even  thus,  when 
after  a  day  of  joy  she  slept  a  balmy  sleep,  a  night  of  peace! 
And  were  not  the  Ions  loose  tresses  crossed  on  her  innocent 
bosom  the  same  as  erst — and  the  pale  smooth  brow,  and  the 
broad  eyelids,  with  their  long  black  fringes,  and  the  cherub 
mouth,  with  lips  slightly  apart,  as  if  smiling  in  some  blissful 
dream  !    "No,  this  cannot  be  death!"  cried  Gherardo,  deliri- 
ously.    "She  sleeps — she  only  sleeps! — Oh  wake!  in  pity, 
wake,  my  Isabel — my  love — my  wife!"    He  was  silent  for  a 


ISABEL.  87 

moment,  and  gazed  on  her  beautiful  moon -lit  countenance, 
as  if  expecting  she  would  really  rise  at  his  passionate  adju- 
ration.    " Isabel!"  continued  he,  "  my  own  Isabel !  why  dost 
thou  slumber  thus! — dost  thou  await  the  warm  kisses -of  thy 
lover  to  awaken  thee  ?  I  give  them  thee !"  and  throwing  himself 
across  the  marble  coffin,  he  pressed  his  quivering  lips  to 
hers.     But  how  did  his  whole  soul  rush  to  his  mouth,  when 
he  fancied  he  felt  the  breath  of  life  on  those  pale  lips!     He 
pressed  them  again — if  it  was  a  delusion,  it  continued — for 
the  mildest,  the  most  subdued  of  breathing  seemed  to  pass 
from  her  lips  to  his.     He  raised  her  from  the  sarcophagus- 
he  placed  his  hand  on  her  heart — and  language  has  no  power 
to  paint  his  emotions,  when  he  felt — plainly  felt  that  heart 
palpitate  beneath  his  hand  !    Another  moment,  and  her  eyes 
opened,  whilst  a  low  murmur  escaped  her  lips.     Gherardo 
clasped  her  wildly  in  his  embrace,  and  leaned  for  support 
against  the  sarcophagus,  where,  as  they  stood,  mute,  motion- 
less, and  pale,  almost  like  statues,  in  the  moon-light,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  tell  which  of  the  two,  or  whether  both, 
had  not  been  awakened  from  the  sleep  of  death. 

The  Chronicler's  tale  is  told.  The  ignorance  of  the  physi- 
cians, and  the  immediate  sepulture  after  death,  usual  in  the 
south,  had  consigned  Isabel  to  the  grave,  from  which  the 
passion  and  impetuosity  of  her  lover  saved  her  so  opportunely. 
The  fair  Venetian  passed  almost  at  once  from  the  marble 
sarcophagus  to  the  nuptial  bed  of  silk  and  velvet.  The 
church,  where  the  echoes  of  her  funeral  dirge  might  almost 
seem  yet  to  linger,  pealed  with  the  notes  of  her  hymeneals  ; 
and  her  bridal  coronet  of  white  roses  was  supplied  by  the 
tree  that  had  furnished  flowers  for  her  funeral. 


PAST,    PRESENT,    FUTURE 


BY  DR.  BOWHING. 


I  mused  while  I  turn'd  on  a  feverish  bed, 

Recalling  the  changes  I've  seen; 
"  There  is  so  much  of  grief  and  of  grievance,"  I  said, 

"In  the  things  and  the  thoughts  that  have  been, 
That  they  canker  the  budding  of  hope  with  their  blight, 
And  o'ershadow  the  future  with  memory's  night." 

Then  I  counted  the  joys,  and  the  beautiful  dreams, 

Of  the  sunshine  and  stars  of  the  past, 
In  the  glory-gilt  twilight  of  youth-time,  which  seems 

To  echo  back  bliss  to  the  last: 
And  I  said,  "Life's  a  blessing,  and  man  should  be  blest, 
And  the  sorrows  of  life  are  but  shadows  at  best." 

It  seem'd  that  I  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  tomb, 

While  the  flapping  of  ravens  I  heard; 
I  felt  the  sweet  calm  betwreen  gladness  and  gloom, 

And  patiently  waited  the  wTord — 
The  wrord  which  should  bid  me  descend,  but  my  breast 
Was  still  as  the  snows  on  the  mountains  that  rest. 

Too  much  I've  enjoyed  on  life's  journey,  to  close 

My  pilgrimage  free  from  regret ; 
And  I've  suffered  too  much  from  its  wants  and  its  woes, 

Their  scourgings  and  stings  to  forget : 
So  come  when  it  will  the  decree  from  on  high, 
I  am  willing  to  live — but  contented  to  die. 


PATTY     CONWAY. 

A  STORY  OF  IRISH  LIFE. 


BT  sins.  S.  C.  HALL. 


"  And  now  she  works  her  mammie's  wark, 
And  aye  she  sighs  wi'  care  and  pain; 
Yet  wist  not  what  her  ail  might  be, 
Or  what  wad  mak'  her  weel  again." — Burns. 

"God  brake  hard  fortune  afore  any  honest  man's  child!" 
exclaimed  my  worthy  friend,  Abel  Conway — as  he  drew  the 
back  of  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  turned  to  enter  his  own 
farm-house— which,  at  first  sight,  more  resembled  an  English 
than  an  Irish  dwelling.  The  windows  were  clean  and  entire ; 
the  thatch  was  neatly  mended ;  the  fronting  free  from  dung- 
hill ;  and,  above  all,  the  pigs  were  carefully  enclosed  in  a 
strongly  built  sty. 

So  much  for  "the  lights"— now  for  "the  shadows."  The 
windows  were  ill  set ;  the  door  hung  awkwardly  upon  its 
hinges ;  there  were  no  flowering  shrubs,  or  sly  patches  of 
woodbine  and  roses,  clinging  in  helpless  beauty  to  the  walls; 
and  the  pigs  were  loudly  remonstrating  against  the  injustice 
of  condemning  them  to  confinement.  By  the  way,  the  dif- 
ference of  piggish  manners  in  the  two  countries  is  very 
amusino*:  an  English  pig  is  a  staid  sober  animal,  satisfied 
with  limited  boundaries,  and  of  a  quiet  sort  of  half  grum- 
bling temperament;  the  Irish  species  is  active,  dirty,  and 

8* 


90  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

bustling — a  lover  and  talker  of  liberty — a  sworn  foe  to  bounds 
and  order — and  everlastingly  reveling  in  mischief  and  dirty 

water. 

Abel  Conway  did  not  approve  of  these  dispositions  in  his 
swinish  multitude,  and,  certainly,  his  farm-yard  looked   all 
the  better  for  it.     It  displayed  a  considerable  portion  of  rural 
wealth  in  oaten,  barley,  and  wheaten  stacks,  flanked  by  two 
substantial  turf  ricks,  and  sundry  sheds.     Three  cows  were 
amusing  themselves  in  plucking  the  hay  from  a  long,  irre- 
gular hay-rack ;  while  the  young  and  interesting  girl  who 
ought  to  have  been  occupied  in  milking  them,  was  leaning 
over  the  gate  that  led  into  an  adjoining  paddock,  her  pail  and 
three-legged  stool  lying  at  her  feet,  and  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands,  while  her  throbbing  bosom  plainly  told  that  she 
was  violently  agitated.     It  was  in  vain  that  her  mother — the 
comely  and  kindly  Stacey  Conway — endeavored  to  render 
her  the  consolation  which  she  herself  evidently  needed;  the 
maiden  only  shook  her  head  at  intervals,  and  listened  on  in 
silence.     Two  or  three  younger  children  were  grouped  near 
the  house*  apparently  ignorant  of  the  cause,  and  yet  unwilling 
to  pursue  their  pastime,  because  those  they  loved  were  un- 
happy.    I  was  grieved  to  see  that  the  weeping  girl  was  no 
other  than  my  especial  favorite,  pretty  Patty  Conway,  oft- 
times  the  humble,  but  intelligent  companion  of  my  sea-side 
wanderings — a  merry,  but  withal,  a  gentle  girl — a  creature 
formed  by  Nature  as  if  to  show  how  contradictions  might  not 
only  mingle  but  harmonize. 

Patty  was,  by  turns,  gay  and  sad,  sportive  and  sedate, 
tender  and  severe — a  maid  of  many  moods,  but  not  of  many 
minds,  for  her  affections  (however  her  rainbow  humors  might 
occasionally  tint  them)  had  long  been  fixed  upon  Edward 
Lavery ;  and  it  was  the  current  report  of  the  village,  that  as 
soon  as  somebody  or  other  (I  believe,  his  uncle)  died,  he 
would  be  rich  enough  to  claim  the  hand  of  pretty  Patty  Con- 
way.    I  was  interested  in  the  progress  of  this  love  affair, 


PATTY    CONWAY.  91 

having  most  certainly  discovered  the  cause  of  the  occasional 
fits  of  absence,  awkwardness,  and  shyness,  with  which  my 
humble  friend  became  afflicted;  and  I  certainly  regarded  the 
entire  family,  including  even  little  Blaney  (most  troublesome 
of  cur-dogs),  with  too  much  interest  not  to  sympathize  with 
their  sorrow. 

Without  further  ceremony,  I  entered  the  cottage  ;  and  ob- 
served that  Abel  was  seated  inside  the  chimney,  on  an 
ancient  high-backed  settle,  his  youngest  boy  clinging  to  his 
knee.  The  father  appeared  perfectly  unconscious  of  his 
caresses,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  curling  steam  that 
issued  from  an  iron  pot  of  boiling  potatoes ;  his  middle  finger, 
meanwhile,  continued  almost  mechanically  stuffing  a  short 
pipe  with  tobacco,  although  any  one  might  have  perceived 
that  the  pipe  was  as  full  as  it  could  possibly  be. 

"Good  even,  Aby." (No  reply.)     "Aby,  a  kind  good 

even  to  you." 

"Och,  my  lady,  is  it  you?  I  ax  yer  pardon — Bat,  darlint," 
(to  the  child,)  "keep  from  under  my  feet,  agra!  Sure,  I'm 
always  proud  to  see  ye — sit  down,  if  you  plaze,  madam — 
not  with  your  back  to  the  door,  alanah!  for  fear  of  the  air — 
here,  now,  is  a  clean  chair  for  ye,  any  how."  Abel,  with 
genuine  politeness,  took  off  the  bob-wig  which  partially 
covered  a  quantity  of  curling  dark  hair,  and  with  it  carefully 
dusted  the  offered  seat;  then,  replacing  the  caxon  on  his 
head,  leaned  his  back  against  the  dresser,  and  crossed  his 
feet,  evidently  at  a  loss  how  to  commence  the  conversation. 

"I  hope,  Aby,  nothing  has  occurred  to  make  my  young 
friend,  Patty,  unhappy?  — I  saw  her  crying  very  bitterly; 
and,  as  she  is  a  favorite  of  mine,  I  thought" — 

"God  bless  you,  my  lady;  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  for 
interrupting  you  ;  sure,  it's  the  height  o'  kindness,  yer  taking 
notice  of  my  girl,  at  all,  at  all — not  but  she's  a  good  creature 
as  iver  broke  bread — only  a  little — (I  ax  yer  pardon,  ma'am, 
honey!  sure,  it's  yerself  knows  it's  the  truth  I  am  telling) — 


92  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

the  least  bit,  like  all  faymale  women,  fond  of  having  her  own 
way.  But,  why? — that's  the  luck  that's  afore  every  man, 
whin  he  enters  the  holy  state  o'  matrimony,  to  be  contradicted 
— you  understand — and,  tho'  we  see  it  straight  forenint  us, 
we  think,  whin  we're  batchelors,  that,  whin  we  marry,  we'll 
manage  the  wives  and  daughters  as  asy  as  kiss  my  hand ;  but, 
God  help  us!  it  all  finishes  the  same  as  in  the  ancient  time 
of  Adam — the  women  get  the  lead  of  us ;  and,  in  regard  of 
obadience,  and  all  that,  upon  my  conscience,  it's  myself 
think's  it's  worse  they're  getting,  instead  of  better." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  entertain  so  bad  an  opinion  of  us, 
Aby." 

"Is  it  me?  Och,  ma'am,  honey,  if  you  plase,  don't  lay 
the  color  o'  that  to  me.  Sure,  I'm  an  Irishman,  and  my 
father  and  mother  were  so  before  me ;  and  wouldn't  it  be  un- 
natural for  me  not  to  love  and  honor  all  womankind,  hand- 
some or  ugly,  rich  or  poor,  the  foreigner  or  one's  own.  '  Bad 
opinion!'  Sure,  I'd  die,  with  all  the  veins  o'  my  heart,  tin 
times  every  day  of  my  life,  rather  nor  see  a  woman  in  trouble. 
And  that  young  slip  outside — let  alone  her  mother — knows 
it;  so  she  does,  or,  I'm  thinking,  she  wouldn't  take  on  so." 

"But  what  is  the  cause,  good  Abel?" 

"  That's  just  what  I'm  coming  to,  if  you  plase,  my  lady. 
You  see — that  is,  you  know — it  was  Patty's  luck  to  meet  that 
young  wild  high-learned  chap,  Neddy  Lavery  at  every  hand's 
turn;  and  her  luck,  I  suppose,  to  pick  up  with  him,  con- 
trary— " 

"Abel  Conway" — I  interrupted,  looking  gravely  at  him, 
"  what  do  you  mean  by  saying  it  was  Patty's  luck?" 

"Annan?"  exclaimed  the  farmer,  scratching  his  puzzled 
pate,  evidently  not  prepared  for  the  question. 

"What  do  you  mean,"  I  repeated,  "by  Patty's  luck?" 

"Is  it  her  luck! — Why  her  luck! — sure  ye'r  sinsible,*  my 

*   You  understand. 


PATTY    CONWAY.  93 

lady — what's  before  her,  ye  know;  the  Lord  save  us!"    And 
he  crossed  himself  devoutly. 

"Do  you  mean,"  I  persisted,  "what  she  cannot  avoid?" 

"Jist  thin — that's  it,  sure  enough — I  b'lieve — ."  The 
last  opinion  he  added  doubtingly. 

"If  so,  Aby,  of  course  it  wTould  be  unjust  to  be  angry  with 
my  young  friend  for  what  she  could  not  help." 

"Couldn't  help!"  repeated  the  farmer,  somewhat  angrily; 
"I  didn't  say  she  couldn't  help  it,  did  I?" 

"You  said  it  was  her  luck,  which  you  have  just  confessed 
means  what  is  unavoidable  ;  the  same  thing  as  not  being  able 
to  help  it,  you  know." 

"  Yer  fine  English  's  too  much  for  me,"  he  replied,  smiling 
good-humoredly ;  "I  don't  quite  understand  you,  I  think." 

"Perhaps  Patty  wras  encompassed  by  a  spell,  which 
obliged  her  to  meet  Edward,"  I  said  gravely. 

"You've  spoke  the  true  word,  my  lady — a  spell,  sure 
enough — the  spell  o'  love,  I  suppose :  the  plague's  own  spell 
over  the  girls,  it  is — every  day's  bad  luck  to  it,  for  bothering 
'em!  and,  what's  more,  all  belonging  to  them!" 

Abel  was  too  intent  on  Patty's  affairs  to  permit  my  enter- 
ing into  a  disquisition  which  I  had  long  meditated,  concern- 
ing his  favorite  tenet  of  "  luck."  The  Irish  peasantry,  without 
understanding  the  term,  are  almost,  without  an  exception, 
predestinarians,  and  it  requires  both  tact  and  temper  to  en- 
counter them.  They  have  a  very  provoking  way  of  gaining 
a  victory,  (which  they  call  settling  an  argument,)  by  some 
jeu  de  ?not,  or  sharp  saying,  which  throws  their  adversary  off 
guard,  and  invariably  causes  a  laugh,  in  which  lies  more 
than  half  of  Paddy's  triumph.  A  true  Irish  laugh  is  the 
most  irresistible  thing  in  the  world : — how  different  from  the 
rigid,  prudent  sort  of  muscular  movement  which  occasionally 
disarranges  the  stiff  mouth  of  an  Englishman,  in  which  the 
eyes  bear  no  part,  and  which  creates  no  sympathy;  whereas, 
the  laugh  of  my  dear  countrymen  is  the  veritable  music  of 


94  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

Momus — it  will  not  be  controlled.  Heaven  preserve  unto 
them  their  light-heartedness!  say  I — they  have  little  else  to 
cheer  them  on  life's  pilgrimage ;  their  green  hills  are  covered 
by  the  rich  man's  flocks,  while  they  perish  around  him ;  their 
fertile  valleys  are  beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  yield  abundant 
harvests — yet,  to  taste  of  the  produce  of  the  land  is  denied 
the  hard-working  laborer;  their  glorious  harbors,  in  which 
the  argosies  of  many  lands  ride  in  riches  and  in  safety ;  the 
wave  that,  as  it  sparkles  on  their  shore,  might  truly  say — 

"  Bright  wealth  on  my  wings,  for  a  hundred  kings, 
From  the  sea's  blue  mine  I  bring ; 
The  loveliest  glare  that  slumbers  there 
I  waft  like  a  waking  thing — 
While  I  strew  the  strands  with  diamond  sands, 
And  to  beauty  a  pearl  I  fling."* 

And  even — but,  alas !  this  digression  has  nothing  to  do  with 
my  story.  So,  craving  my  reader's  pardon  for  the  undue 
indulgence  of  my  rambling  propensities,  and  promising  (if 
possible)  to  keep  on  in  a  straightforward  way — I  will,  as  an 
atonement,  relate  in  fewer  words  than  it  was  told  unto  me,  the 
cause  of  the  commotion  in  Abel  Conway's  household. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  farmer  (an  extraordinarily 
prudent  person,  for  an  Irishman),  had,  from  the  first,  disap- 
proved of  Edward  Lavery  as  a  son-in-law ;  not  that  he  could 
assign  any  specific  reason  for  disliking  the  young  man,  but 
there  were  certain  symptoms  of  wildness  about  him,  which 
Conway  feared  might  grow  into  unsteadiness.  To  confess 
the  truth,  the  youth  was  somewhat  careless  in  matters  01 
business,  wTas  fonder  of  hurling  than  of  farming,  and  had 
unfortunately  a  poetical  talent,  of  which  he  was  not  a  little 
vain ;  this  vanity,  however,  was  tolerably  restrained  until,  in 
an  unlucky  moment,  one  of  his  songs,  called  "  The  Irish 
Hunt,"  found  its  way  into  an  obscure   county  paper;  and 

*  Laman  Blanehard. 


PATTY    CONWAY.  95 

Edward's  mother,  in  the  pride  of  her  heart,  and  with  what 
her  neighbors  called  "  dacent  spirit,"  had  the  whole  paper 
framed,  glazed,  and  hung  in  all  the  dignity  of  glass  and  gold 
over  the  large  oak  table!  This  was,  perhaps,  natural  enough, 
but  it  certainly  did  not  improve  the  humility  of  Edward's 
demeanor,  while  it  greatly  impeded  the  course  of  his  true 
love;  for  Mr.  Conway  was  heard  to  declare,  "that  no  young 
man  who  would  give  his  mind  to  turning  words  through  one 
another,  after  such  a  useless  fashion,  could  ever  come  to  good; 
and  that  it  was  ten  times  worse  than  setting  up  for  a  gentle- 
man." Fortunately  for  the  young  people,  Mrs.  Conway  was 
of  a  different  opinion  from  her  husband.  She  liked  the  young 
man  for  the  very  qualities  that  had  given  rise  to  the  worthy 
farmer's  disapprobation ;  declared  "that  he  came  o' dacent 
people — that  he  had  a  good  many  of  the  makin's  of  a  gen- 
tleman about  him — that  the  best  wine  bubbled  the  most  at 
first,  &c.  &c,  and  finally,  that  he  was  just  the  fit  husband 
for  Patty." 

This  difference  of  opinion  created,  if  not  positive  storms, 
certainly  rough  breezes  in  the  family.  Stacey  would  wrangle 
and  talk,  advise  and  declare,  until  she  worked  Conway  (no 
difficult  task  either)  into  a  passion;  then  the  woman,  wise 
and  wife-like,  would  let  him  stamp  and  swear  until  he  was 
out  of  breath  and  absolutely  tired ;  then  she  would  judiciously 
recommence,  exaggerate  all  he  had  said,  call  him  cruel  and 
unkind,  speak  of  her  own  worthiness  and  his  demerits,  touch 
him  upon  the  tender  subject,  in  her  own  peculiar  way — the 
loves  of  their  past  lives, — appeal  to  him  as  the  father  of  her 
children  not  to  make  her  and  them  unhappy  by  his  obstinacy, 
— and  conclude  her  harangue  with  a  shower  of  tears,  which 
last  had  the  desired  effect.  Abel  of  course  apologized — gave 
up  the  point — until  some  fresh  visit  from  the  lover,  some 
token  discovered,  or  some  village  chat,  renewed  his  animo- 
sity, and  his  wife's  defence;  then  another  debate  followed 
on  his  part,  with  another  resignation.     Abel's  humility  on 


96  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

these  occasions  would  really  be  a  useful  lesson  how  to  man- 
age a  tyrannical  John  Bull. 

It  so  occurred,  that  after  one  of  these  little  domestic  dis- 
turbances on  the  very  evening  to  which  my  tale  relates, 
farmer  Conway  had  gone,  for  the  benefit  of  the  cool  air  and 
comfort,  to  "Paddy  Murphy's  Public."  Just  as  he  had  fin- 
ished his  nice  tumbler  of  punch,  and  laid  down  the  scarcely 
legible  London  paper,  that  had  been  in  constant  request  for 
three  weeks  at  least,  who  should  enter  the  region  of  whisky 
but  "bothered  Nancy  Fay?"  Now  be  it  known  that  "bo- 
thered" signifies  deaf;  and  Nancy  was  a  little  old  cranky 
"bothered"  woman,  who  traveled  the  country  in  the  quality 
of  a  goose-plucker,  and  consequently  news-vender  to  sundry 
parishes.  She  was  an  extraordinary-looking  being,  not  more 
than  four  feet  two  or  three  inches  in  height,  with  a  cunning 
sharp  countenance,  a  lame  leg,  and  a  strong  affection  for 
whisky.  The  feathers,  which  she  either  bought  or  stole, 
were  contained  in  a  blue  cloak,  sewed  into  a  sack,  and  when 
this  was  strapped  across  her  shoulders,  she  appeared  like  a 
misshapen  roll  of  cloth,  moving  upon  two  red  spindles,  and 
getting  forward  on  her  journey  by  a  swinging  sort  of  move- 
ment, rather  than  a  regular  walk;  the  feathered  bale  swelled 
over  her  blackened  straw  hat,  and  the  smoke  which  curled 
into  the  air  as  it  proceeded  from  her  cutty  pipe,  gave  her  ap- 
pearance a  most  ludicrous  effect  to  those  who  followed  her 
ambling  footsteps. 

"God  save  all  here!"  she  ejaculated,  as,  raising  herself  on 
the  points  of  her  toes,  she  unfastened  the  strap,  and  permit- 
ted the  blue  sack  to  rest  on  the  board  that  served,  in  the  eco- 
nomical apartment  of  Mister  Paddy  Murphy,  for  both  dresser 
and  counter. 

"Och,  Nancy,  is  that  you  ?"  responded  the  kind-hearted 
Conway,  at  the  same  time  filling  out  a  glass  of  Irish  poison ; 
"here's  something  to  drive  the  could  out  of  ye — the  stuff 


PATTY   CONWAY.  97 

that's  the  rale  heart's  blood  of  the  country:  take  it,  agra! 
and  tell  us  the  news." 

She  deliberately  finished  "the  cappar,"  and  fixing  her  lit- 
tle gray  Munster  eyes  upon  Abel,  replied,  "God's  blessing 
be  about  ye,  and  the  blessing  o'  the  saints,  and  ray  blessing 
to  the  back  of  it,  Mister  Aby;  and  sure  you're  in  luck's  way 
this  fine  evening;  for  I  heard  for  sartain,  (and  she  lowered 
her  voice  confidentially,)  —  I  heard  for  sartain,  that  Ned 
Lavery,  the  high-go  chap,  that  thought  so  much  of  himself 
and  his  bits  of  varses,  'listed  with  the  red-coats  in  Taghmore, 
and  's  going  to  quit  entirely  for  foreign  parts.  So  now, 
astore,  ye'll  have  yer  own  way  for  onst,  in  yer  own  house." 

Abel  literally  sprang  from  his  seat.  If  Edward  had  indeed 
enlisted,  he  certainly  was  likely  to  have,  what  Nancy  had 
maliciously  insinuated — his  own  way;  but,  perhaps,  at  that 
moment,  victory  was  the  last  thing  he  thought  of.  The  feel- 
ing that  he  had  not  done  justice  to  Edward's  good  qualities, 
and  had  exaggerated  his  bad  ones,  was,  perhaps,  the  first  he 
could  define,  of  the  many  that  crowded  his  mind  :  how  would 
poor  Patty  bear  such  a  cruel  desertion?  what  would  his 
agony,  as  a  father  be,  if  his  own  son  were  to  enlist?  When, 
in  some  degree,  he  conquered  his  agitation,  he  loudly  and 
eagerly  inquired  where  Nancy  had  gained  her  information. 

"Is  it  where  I  hard  it,  astore? — Sit  down,  agra!  and  I'll 
tell  ye.     You  see" — 

"  Thunder  and  ages!"  interrupted  Conway;  "tell  me,  out 
o'  the  face,  and  don't  squat  there,  like  an  ould  goose — spake 
up,  and  at  onst,  ye  bothered  keener!" 

Deaf  as  old  Nancy  certainly  was,  she  fully  understood  the 
purport  of  this  elegant  oration:  her  little  nose  assumed  a 
purply  tint,  and  her  gray  eyes  blinked  and  twinkled  with 
spitefulness  and  passion. 

"  May  the  Dickons  himself  be  at  the  trouble  of  fetching 
me,  Aby  Conway,  if  I  say  a  word  more  about  it  to-night,  till 
yer  out  of  the  house.     I  tould  ye,  for  yer  own  good,  what  I 
9 


98  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

was  full  sure  ye'd  be  glad  to  hear;  and  thin  ye  turn  as  savage 
as  a  pluck't  gander,  for  nothin'  at  all! — 'Bothered  keener, 
agra!'  if  I'm  bothered,  may-be  there's  other  people  blind! 
Find  out  for  yerself,  if  it  consarns  ye.  Or  go  down  and  ax 
yer  delicate  daughter,"  she  added,  grinning;  "I  jist  stept 
in  on  my  way  and  tould  her." 

"Nancy,  ye've  no  more  feeling  than  yer  ould  bag,"  ex- 
claimed the  farmer,  at  the  same  time  kicking  the  feather 
pouch  with  so  much  violence,  that,  in  a  moment,  a  cloud  of 
gray  and  white  down  mixed  with  the  smoke,  and  thickened 
the  atmosphere — while  Conway  added,  "The  next  cappar  of 
whisky  ye  get  from  me,  to  be  sure  ye'll  drink  it." 

"Is  it  throwing  yer  dirty,  weak  trash  o'  spirits  in  my  face, 
ye  are?"  retorted  Nancy,  springing  up  like  a  fairy  fury; 
"there  it's  back  for  ye,"  she  continued,  flinging  a  penny  at 
his  feet;  "d'ye  think  I'm  going  to  be  behoulden  to  the  likes 
o'  you?" 

Conway,  perfectly  aware  that  no  good  could  be  got  of  the 
"cankered  weazel,"  while  she  remained  in  that  humor,  re- 
treated, under  the  commingled  cloud  of  smoke  and  goose- 
down;  but  the  sounds  of  "My  beautiful  feathers!  I'll  make 
him  pay  for  it!"  followed  him,  even  after  Nancy  had  care- 
fully picked  up  the  penny  which,  in  her  indignation,  she  had 
flunsr  before  him. 

When  Abel  arrived  at  his  own  home,  Patty  could  not  af- 
ford him  any  additional  information.  Nancy  only  said,  that 
she  heard  Edward  had  enlisted,  and  was  to  march  with  the 
soldiers  the  next  morning.  "Father,  dear  father! — if  you 
would  only'go  and  see — jist  find  him  out,"  sobbed  the  poor 
girl,  as  she  hid  her  face  on  her  father's  shoulder.  "If  you 
would  only  find  him  out — and  tell  him" — 

"That  you're  dying  for  him?" — interrupted  the  father, 
pushing  her  roughly  from  him. 

"Not  that,"  she  replied,  drawing  herself  up,  in   all  the 
pure  and  conscious  dignity  of  maiden  modesty — "not  that, 


PATTY    CONWAY.  99 

father.  Many  years  have  we  gathered  the  same  flowers, 
walked  in  the  same  sunshine,  and  danced,  heart  and  feet,  to 
the  same  music:  you  thought  to  put  the  couldness  between 
us,  jist  as  the  briar  parts  the  wild  primroses,  that  grow  from 
the  same  seed,  on  the  hill-side.  It  is  done  now,  I  suppose ; 
and  you  meant  it  for  good;  but  all  I  wanted  was — jist  to  hear 
his  own  voice  say, 'Good  by,  Patty — 'and,  maybe, 'God 
bless  ye!'  Father,  that  was  all!"— and  she  burst  into  an 
uncontrolled  flood  of  tears. 

"Me  ax  him  to  bid  you  good  by — you  that's  far  too  good 
for  him,"  said  Aby,  much  moved,  "whin  he  knew  ye  loved 
him  ?  I'd  suffer  the  heart  to  be  tore  out  o'  my  body  first ! 
Lower  a  child  o'  mine  in  that  way!  If  he's  bent  on  going, 
let  him  go." 

"It's  easy  to  say  'let  him  go,'  ye  hard-hearted  Neabudcad- 
neazar  of  a  man— and  it's  all  along  your  fault,"  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Conway. 

"My  fault!"  repeated  the  husband,  lifting  up  his  hands, 
despairingly :  "  For  God's  sake,  woman,  what  had  I  to  do  with 
his  'listing?  Och  meal-a-murder!  the  blessing  and  purtec- 
tion  of  the  Holy  Saints  be  about  me  entirely!— and  what  had 
I  to  do  with  it?" 

So  saying,  Aby  turned  from  the  hay-yard  to  enter  his 
dwelling,  but  could  not  avoid  casting  a  "lingering  look  be- 
hind," when  the  sight  of  his  darling  child,  bitterly  weeping 
on  her  mother's  bosom,  drew  forth  the  simple  and  touching 
Irish  exclamation  that  I  overheard,  "God  brake  hard  fortune 
afore  any  honest  man's  child!" 

When  the  worthy  man  had  told  me  what  I  have  related 
after  my  own  fashion,  I  requested  permission  to  goto  the  hay- 
yard,  and  prevail  upon  my  young  friend  to  enter  the  house. 
She  accepted  my  arm,  with  a  stupid,  unconscious  look, 
and  sat  down,  apparently  without  exercising  any  will  of  her 
own:  she  took  no  part  in  the  conversation  that  succeeded, 
and  her  swollen  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground.  Her  mother 
endeavored  to  entertain  me  with  the  usual  topics  of  country 


100  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

conversation,  but  the  effort  was  too  plainly  visible,  too  feeble, 
too  slight,  to  veil  the  mental  anguish  under  which  she  suffered. 
Abel  stood  in  his  old  position,  glancing  occasionally  at  his 
daughter,  with  a  mingled  expression  of  stern  and  tender  feel- 
ing, that  was  at  once  both  comic  and  tragic. 

Suddenly,  a  footstep  approached  the  door — it  was  evidently 
a  known  sound  to  the  sorrowing  girl,  for  she  sprang  forward, 
and,  at  the  same  moment,  fell  perfectly  senseless  into  the 
arms  of  Edward  Lavery.  Various  exclamations  followed — 
and  to  the  general  question  of  "  Are  ye  'listed  ?"  he  answered, 
"No,  nor  sich  a  thing  niver  came  across  me."  As  Patty 
recovered,  she  passed  her  hand  listlessly  over  Edward's  coat, 
as  if  to  ascertain  what  alteration  it  had  undergone :  a  feeble 
smile  passed  over  her  countenance,  on  finding  that  his  dress 
was  unchanged;  and  her  eye,  which  still  appeared  filled  with 
tears,  rested  for  a  moment  on  his  hat — when,  turning  towards 
her  mother,  she  released  herself  from  his  support,  and  said, 
"No  cockade — no  soldier!" 

"Before  another  word  is  spoke,"  observed  Conway,  "I  jist 
want  to  spake  myself: — Edward  Lavery, — you  have  that  in 
your  keeping — and  I  can't  but  say  I'm  sorry  for  it — that 
gould  nor  silver  couldn't  buy,  and  that  is,  the  pure  and  sunny 
heart  of  Patty  Conway!  There,  child,  don't  go  for  to  deny 
it— though  it's  my  firm  belief,  now  that  I'm  for  ye,  yer  mo- 
ther will  turn  to  the  other  side,  jist  by  way  of  a  change. 
There  is  no  use  of  keeping  the  hand  when  the  heart's  gone ; 
and  whether  your  uncle  lives  or  dies,  sure  I've  enough  for 
both.  But  be  kind  to  her,  Ned— be  kind  to  my  girl ;  and 
remember,  that  a  cool  look,  much  more  a  cool  word,  is  a 
blight,  a  bitter  blight  to  woman's  love.  I  will  niver  gainsay 
it  more — ye  have  both  my  blessing  and  my  consint." — Ed- 
ward and  Patty  fell  at  his  feet — and,  amid  tears  of  joy  and 
tenderness,  the  old  people  pronounced  an  earnest  blessing 
over  the  trembling  pair. 

"How  could  that  old  limmer  make  up  sich  a  story?"  said 


PATTY    CONWAY.  101 

Stacey  Conway,  wiping  her  eyes,  for  the  twentieth  tinle,  With 
the  corner  of  her  checked  apron. 

"God  bless  her  for  it,  the  poor  sarpint,"  replied  Edward", 
"for  it's  ended  well  for  me;  and  sure,  Patty,  'tis  only  man- 
ners for  ye  to  ax  the  lady  to  the" — Patty  placed  her  hand 
on  his  mouth,  which  prevented  his  finishing  the  sentence. 

"  It  must  ha'  come  thro'  this,"  proceeded  Edward — "  the 
sargent's  a  first  cousin  o'  my  mother's  half-brother's  wife, 
and,  out  o'  good  nature,  he  trated  me  at  Mick  Luke's  house ; 
and  while  I  was  sitting  there,  in  came  Katty  Flin,  the  ould 
gossip,  and  she  began  telling  the  misthress  how  Bothered 
Nancy  was  plucking  the  geese,  and  was  to  pay  her  so  much 
a-piece  for  them — 'but,'  says  she,  'for  fear  she'd  pluck  the 
goslins,  the  craturs  that's  green  yet,  and  their  skin  as  tinder 
as  May-butter,  whin  my  back's  turned,  I'd  better  go  watch.' 
'Do,'  says  I,  glad  to  get  sight  of  her  back,  'and  tell  her  I'm 
'listed.'  " 

Patty  Conway  and  Edward  Lavery  were  married  the  very 
next  week,  and  a  merry  wedding  they  had.  The  bridegroom 
gladdened  his  father-in-law's  heart,  by  taking  an  oath  against 
poetry;  and  Patty  presented  to  her  husband's  mother  a  beau- 
tiful sampler,  which,  when  framed  and  glazed,  made  an  ad- 
mirable companion  to  the  "Irish  Hunt." 


THE  ABSENT  SHIP. 

Fair  ship,  I  saw  thee  bounding  o'er  the  deep, 
Thy  white  wings  glancing  in  the  morning  ray, 

And  many  a  sparkling  eye  in  vain  did  weep 
For  the  bold  hearts  that  steer'd  thee  on  thy  way 

Long  days  of  grief  have  linger'd  into  years: 

Return !  return !  and  charm  away  their  tears. 

I  listen'd,  till  the  music  and  the  song 
Died  on  the  waters  as  she  swept  along; 
I  watch'd  her  stately  beauty,  till  it  grew 
A  fading  shadow  on  the  distant  blue ; 
Less,  and  still  less — the  waters  are  alone ! 
Queen  of  the  ocean!  whither  art  thou  gone? 

The  wintry  storm  has  sigh'd  itself  to  sleep, 
Yet  still  thou  lingerest  on  the  faithless  deep ; 
Have  calmer  seas,  and  skies  of  deeper  blue, 
Charm'd  thee  to  bid  thine  island  home  adieu? 
Long  has  yon  dark-eyed  maiden  wept  in  vain : 
Return!  return!  and  bid  her  smile  again. 

Long  may'st  thou  weep,  but  never  shalt  thou  see 

Thy  fair-hair'd  mariner  return  to  thee, 

Clasp  thy  young  beauty  in  a  long  embrace, 

And  read  his  pardon  in  thy  happy  face : 

Thy  gentle  prayers,  fair  mourner,  could  not  save ! 

Thy  sailor  sleeps  within  the  stormy  wave. 


CALANTHA. 

Cynics  may  say  what  they  will,  and  disappointed  wooers 
may  pretend  to  contemn  his  power,  but  love,  at  one  time  or 
other,  is  nevertheless  the  tyrant  of  us  all.  It  is  in  vain  to 
deny  this  fact;  apathy  may  try  to  close  his  heart  against  it; 
reason  may  build  up  a  plausible  scheme  of  life  without  the 
boy-god's  interference;  friendship  may  extol  itself  as  being 
superior  (and,  without  doubt,  friendship  is  amongst  the  dear- 
est solaces  of  man's  being) ;  platonic  affection  may  endeavor 
to  keep  itself  distinct  from  the  other;  men,  in  short,  may  vow 
to  live  and  die  free  from  the  tyranny  of  love ;  but  the  smiling 
deity  mocks  at  all  this  vowing,  and  determining,  and  reason- 
ing ;  and  in  a  moment,  when  these  mighty  masters  of  the 
world  are  least  expecting  it,  he  wreathes  his  rosy  chains 
about  their  hearts,  and  brings  them  humbly  to  his  feet,  or 
rather  to  the  feet  of  his  fair  proxy  upon  earth — lovely  woman! 

Such  then  is  love's  universal  power ;  all  own  it  in  some 
way  or  other;  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  vile  and  virtuous, 
alike  bow  down  before  him.  One  man  loves  cautiously  ;  is 
for  years,  perhaps,  lingering  around  the  object  of  his  regard 
before  he  declares  his  passion ;  another  loves  in  a  moment, 
and  in  a  moment  breathes  forth  his  vows.  Love  assaults  the 
breast  of  one  man  in  a  church ;  of  another  in  a  theatre :  this 
dances  himself  into  the  intoxicating  passion,  and  that  learns 
to  love  while  leaning  over  a  harp,  and  listening  to  the  delight- 
ful warblings  of  an  earthly  angel.  Some  meet  the  tender 
passion  in  the  shady  groves  and  silent  retreats  of  the  country; 


1Q4  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

while  others  are  caught  in  the  midst  of  noisy  London.  Love 
enters  one  man's  bosom  when  he  sees  a  splendid  female  in 
the  midst  of  a  pleasurable  scene;  while,  on  the  contrary, 
another  is  taught  to  love  the  gentle  girl  whom  he  finds  smooth- 
ing the  pillow  of  declining  age,  or  watching  the  bed  of  sick- 
ness. Love,  indeed,  is  everywhere;  and  this  trivial  tale  will 
only  add  another  wreath  to  the  number  already  bound  round 
the  temples  of  the  infant  god. 

Edward  and  Charles  Murray  were  the  sons  of  a  gentleman 
of  large  property,  residing  not  far  from  the  town  of  Bury  St. 
Edmunds,  in  the  county  of  Suffolk  ;  their  father  was  by  birth 
a  Scotchman,  but  having  married  an  heiress,  became  a  resi- 
dent in  the  mansion  of  his  wife's  forefathers,  which  stood  in 
the  midst  of  a  beautiful  estate  in  the  neighborhood  above- 
mentioned,  and  where  his  two  sons,  his  only  children,  were 
born.  Charles  was  the  younger  by  two  years ;  and  although 
Edward  would  succeed  to  the  landed  estates,  Mr.  Murray 
had  taken  care  to  provide  by  his  will  a  handsome  fortune  out 
of  his  personal  property  for  Charles.  Their  mother,  who 
was  a  beautiful  but  delicate  woman,  did  not  live  to  see  them 
through  the  interesting  period  of  their  infant  years ;  for  in- 
exorable death  snatched  her  from  a  devoted  husband  and  an 
admiring  circle  of  friends ;  Charles  being  at  the  time  but  two 
years  old,  and  Edward  four. 

The  inconsolable  situation  of  their  remaining  parent  can 
only  be  appreciated  by  those  who  have  suffered  such  a 
loss  ;  the  vivid  fancies  of  a  feeling  heart  may  indeed  picture 
something  like  the  first  deep  despair  of  such  a  moment, 
and  such  a  pang ;  but  the  sad  reality  no  tongue  can  de- 
scribe. For  a  considerable  time  he  felt  himself  alone  in  the 
world ;  he  seemed  to  have  lost  his  only  solace  and  support, 
and  remained  for  many  days  closely  shut  up  in  his  room. 
At  length  his  two  boys  were  introduced  to  him ;  and  though 
their  resemblance  to  their  departed  mother  gave  the  father  a 
shock,  yet  their  innocent  playfulness,  and  the  recollection 


CALANTHA.  105 

that  he  had  a  sacred  duty  to  perform  by  them,  at  length  re- 
stored him  to  a  state  of  quiescent  calmness,  if  not  to  happi- 
ness. 

But  soon  the  want  of  a  mother  to  direct  aright  their  youth- 
ful pursuits ;  the  thousand  cares  and  attentions  which  none 
but  a  mother  can  administer  as  they  should  be  administered ; 
the  indifference,  the  heedlessness,  and  the  frequent  vices  of 
servants,  to  whom  young  children  must  of  necessity  be  much 
intrusted,  and  after  whom  a  master  is  often  the  most  unfit 
person  to  look ;  pressed  strongly  upon  the  mind  of  Mr.  Mur- 
ray the  imperative  necessity  there  was  for  him  to  find  some 
female  who  might  be  adequate  to  such  a  charge,  and  at  the 
same  time  respectable  enough  to  mingle  as  one  of  the  family 
in  the  society  that  frequented  his  mansion.     The  qualifica- 
tions for  such  an  office,  he  was  quite  aware,  could  be  neither 
few  nor  trivial ;  but  a  recurrence  to  the  scenes  of  his  early 
years,  and  a  recollection  of  the  present  situation  in  life  of 
some  part  of  his  own  family,  soon  relieved  him  from  his 
suspense.     A  distant  relative  of  his,  and  about  his  own  age, 
had  been  married  in  Scotland  rather  improvidently  to  a  sub- 
altern in  the  army,  who,  he  had  heard,  was  recently  dead, 
and  had  left  his  widow  with  a  miserable  pittance,  and  an 
infant  daughter  to  support.    Mr.  Murray  well  knew  the  worth 
of  this  lady ;  he  also  knew  that  her  education  had  been  of  the 
very  first  order;  that  she  was  even  learned  as  well  as  ac- 
complished:   her   knowledge   was  not   superficial,   she  had 
drunk  deep  at  the  "Pierian  spring,"  and  was  therefore  well 
qualified  to  watch  over  the  advancing  years  of  his  two  sons ; 
besides  which  he  had  always  known  her  to  be  of  a  most  mild 
and  amiable  temper ;  she  could  bear,  and  forbear ;  and  such  a 
disposition  is  the  fittest  to  manage  children. 

Many  circumstances  had  prevented  Mr.  Murray  from  having 
any  recent  correspondence  with  this  lady;  but  he  now  wrote 
to  her,  and  eventually  induced  her  to  become  a  member  of 


106  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

his    family,   together    with    her   blue-eyed   infant,   Calantha 
Graham. 

In  a  short  time  Mrs.  Graham  and  her  beautiful  child  be- 
came esteemed  by  Edward  and  Charles  Murray  as  a  mother 
and  a  sister ;  and  a  casual  observer,  who  might  have  met 
them  in  their  frequent  rambles  about  the  delightful  grounds, 
would  have  decided  that  they  wTere  so.  The  charming  but 
difficult  task  of  teaching  "the  young  idea  how  to  shoot,"  Mrs. 
Graham  always  made  her  chief  pleasure ;  and  Mr.  Murray, 
although  he  never  recovered  the  severe  shock  he  received  in 
losing  his  deeply-beloved  partner,  yet  now  began  to  feel  a 
secret  silent  joy,  mingling  with  his  sorrowful  sensations. 
Unalloyed  happiness,  indeed,  was  never  likely  to  be  his 
again ;  but  it  certainly  lightened  his  load  of  grief  to  perceive 
the  sparkling  eyes  of  his  offspring  lighted  up  with  intelligence 
and  joy  ;  and  to  know  that  they  had  not  suffered  all  the  be- 
reavement that  a  mother's  death  too  frequently  brings  with 
it ;  for  his  amiable  relative,  Mrs.  Graham,  filled  that  situation 
towards  them — a  situation  which  often  it  is  so  difficult  to  fill. 

It  would  be  too  tedious  to  dwell  on  the  history  of  the 
advancing  years  of  these  three  children,  who  will  be  the 
principal  subjects  of  my  unvarnished  story;  suffice  it  1o  say, 
that  during  the  early  part  of  their  lives  they  mutually  im- 
bibed every  good  principle,  much  valuable  instruction,  and 
many  accomplishments,  from  their  well  taught  teacher,  Mrs. 
Graham.  The  best  masters  were  provided  for  the  more  ab- 
struse and  difficult  branches  of  education,  by  all  of  whom 
they  profited  nearly  equally ;  they  constantly  shared  their 
tasks  and  their  amusements,  and  indeed  their  learning,  from 
the  kind  endearments  of  their  matronly  instructress,  was  as 
much  their  amusement  as  anything  else.  We  will,  therefore, 
pass  over  the  interval  of  time  till  Edward  had  reached  his 
fourteenth,  and  Charles  his  twelfth  year;  the  fair  Calantha 
was  about  the  same  age  as  the  latter ;  the  boys  treated  and 


CALANTHA.  107 

esteemed  her  as  their  sister,  while  she  looked  upon  them — 
so  her  young  heart  thought — as  brothers. 

Amone  their  rambles   and  rides   about  the   country,  the 
vicinity  of  the  town  of  Bury,  and  the  venerable  remains  of 
its  once  great  and  mitred  abbey,  was  their  favorite  resort ; 
here  they  were  enabled  to  compare  their  architectural  read- 
ings with  architectural  realities   and  their  magnificent    re- 
mains;   the   old  Saxon  tower,  now  called  the  Church-gate, 
though,  in  fact,  quite  separate  from  the  church,  and  the  most 
perfect  thing,  perhaps,  of  the  kind  in  England ,  the  uniquely- 
beautiful  ruin  called  the  Abbey-gate  ;  and  all  the  more  muti- 
lated masses  towards  the  little  river  Lark,  which  divided  the 
abbey  gardens  from  its  vineyards,  once  situated  on  a  sloping 
ground  with  a  fine  south-western  aspect,  and  still  designated 
the  Vine-fields.     Here  they  loitered  away  many  a  summer 
and  autumnal  morning,  busied  with  their  pencils  either  in 
taking  sketches  of  the  various  ruins,  snatching  an  evanescent 
grace  from  the  scenery  around,  or  pouring  forth  in  poetic 
numbers  the  feelings  that  were  awakened  by  the  contempla- 
tion of  all  this  decayed  grandeur.     On  this  spot  once  held 
dominion  the  stately  abbot,  ruling  the  town  and  neighborhood 
with  a  sort  of  princely  sway,  and  granting  to  it  many  of  the 
immunities  now  enjoyed ;  here  the  cowled  monk  whispered 
forth  his  matin  prayer,  and  chanted  his  vesper  hymn ;  hither, 
to  the  rich  and  emblazoned  shrine  of  the  sainted  Edmund, 
came  troops  of  pious  pilgrims,  to  make  their  vows  and  de- 
posit their  munificent  gifts;  here  for   ages  religion  held  her 
solemn  and  splendid  reign,  bowed  to  by  many  with  the  really 
sanctified  spirit,  and  by  others  with  base  hypocrisy — but  all 
is  now  swept  away  and  buried  in  oblivion,  except  the  re- 
mains already  spoken  of. 

A  spot  like  this  was  deeply  interesting  to  our  juvenile  trio: 
their  wonderments;  their  tracings  of  the  mouldering  founda- 
tions in  the  grass;  their  admiration  of  some  of  the  remaining 
fragments,  which  have  resisted,  as  it  is  said,  all  the  efforts  of 


108  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

man  to  destroy  them ;  their  fanciful  notions  of  the  manners, 
habits,  &c,  of  the  former  occupants  of  these  ruins,  were  all 
delightful  in  their  way;  and  to  Edward,  who  was  no  mean 
poet,  considering  his  youth,  they  gave  frequent  occasion  for 
the  use  of  his  pen. 

Thus  years  glided  away:  Calantha  became  a  beautiful 
woman ;  the  young  men  had  been  sent  to  college,  where  the 
correspondence  they  kept  up  with  their  charming  friend,  and 
almost  sister,  was  their  greatest  solace ;  and  when,  during 
the  vacations,  they  returned  to  the  mansion  of  their  father, 
the  delight  experienced  by  the  whole  trio  needs  an  abler  pen 
than  mine  to  portray.  They  appeared  to  love  one  another 
as  we  would  fancy  angelic  beings  show  their  affections  in  the 
skies ;  for  certainly  little  of  earth  had  yet  mingled  its  alloy 
in  their  minds.  Such,  and  so  lovely,  was  the  appearance  of 
their  mutual  happiness,  when  insatiable  death  claimed  the 
father  of  the  Murrays,  and,  alas !  snatched  him  away  by  the 
sudden  and  appalling  stroke  of  apoplexy.  Well  may  we  be 
taught  to  pray  against  sudden  death  ;  for  though  it  is  some- 
times argued,  that,  when  a  man  is  well  prepared,  it  matters 
not  how  short  is  the  pang  that  removes  him  from  a  life  of 
trouble,  and  conveys  his  immortal  part  to  a  world  of  peace ; 
yet  to  the  survivors  it  is  indeed  an  awful  and  a  heart-rending 
calamity.  The  children  who  have  looked  up  with  confiding 
affection  to  a  father  for  support  and  advice,  see  that  being  in 
a  moment  prostrated  to  the  earth,  and  laid  in  his  grave,  by, 
what  their  sorrows  cannot  help  deeming,  a  cruel  dispensation 
of  Providence.  The  wife,  who  loved  her  husband  with 
more  than  mortal  love,  who  looked  to  his  protecting  arm  and 
endearing  regards  as  all  her  earthly  bliss,  is  then  left  a  widow 
indeed ! 

This  event  called  Edward  and  Charles  from  their  studies: 
they  now,  for  the  first  time,  left  the  cloistered  walls  of  Alma 
Mater  with  feelings  of  intense  grief;  and  they  left  them  to 
return  no  more.     Edward  was  now  twenty-two  and  Charles 


CALANTHA.  109 

twenty ;  and  as  the  property  of  their  deceased  parent  was 
ample  enough  to  make  the  choice  of  a  profession  quite  un- 
necessary, they  determined  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of  returning 
to  college,  and  to  enjoy  each  other's  society,  and  that  of  their 
sister-like  Calantha  and  her  amiable  mother,  in  their  lamented 
father's  mansion. 

Sorrow  for  a  long  period  stole  from  them  all  the  blessed 
calm,  the  delightful  intercourse,  that  hearts  so  united  as  were 
those  of  this  little  family  generally  enjoy;  but  time,  the  great 
restorer,  at  length  brought  "healing  on  his  wings;"  and  the 
morning  and  evening  ramble,  the  amusements  of  the  pen  and 
the  pencil,  and  all  their  wonted  employments,  again  gave  a 
pleasing  zest,  and  made  life  more  than  tolerable, — they  made 
it  happy.  Sometimes,  indeed,  the  softened  but  bitter  tears 
of  recollection  were  called  forth ;  for  memory,  that  busy  power, 
would  remind  them  of  the  heavy  loss  they  had  sustained  by 
the  death  of  father  and  of  friend. 

Two  more  years  had  now  elapsed,  and  Calantha's  beauty, 
her  talents,  and  her  manners,  became  the  admiration  of  the 
surrounding  neighborhood.  At  the  subscription  assemblies, 
held  in  the  town  of  Bury,  her  form,  her  face,  her  dress,  and 
her  style  of  dancing,  were  at  once  the  delight  of  the  gentle- 
men and  the  envy  of  the  ladies:  and  yet,  amid  all  this  adula- 
tion on  the  part  of  one  sex  and  the  wTant  of  it  on  the  other, 
she  remained  the  same  sweet  unsophisticated  being  as  ever  ; 
it  was  unable  to  spoil  her, — the  affections  of  her  soul, 

"Pure  as  the  breath  of  new-born  infancy," 

were  divided  between  a  natural  love  for  her  affectionate 
mother,  and  an  undefined  sort  of  regard  for  Edward  and 
Charles.  This  regard  indeed  began, — though  a  good  deal 
unsuspected,  and  quite  unacknowledged, — to  awaken  an 
unusual,  and  till  then  unknown,  feeling  in  the  bosoms  of 
our  young  trio;  it  first  showed  itself  in  a  restraint  of  behavior 
till  then  unthought-of  between  them:  the  brothers  were  less 
10 


HO  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

confidential  in  their  communications  to  each  other  ;  and  Ca- 
lantha  had  a  sort  of  .reserve  in  her  manner  towards  them 
that  she  could  not  account  for  even  to  herself.  Yet  with  all 
this  there  was  no  want  of  attentions  to  their  fair  friend — 
they  were  even  increased ;  but  there  was  a  something  of 
formality  about  them  which  there  had  never  been  before  :  in 
truth,  it  was  love  that  had  wrought  all  this  change,  and  the 
brothers  had  confessed  it  in  their  own  hearts,  but  knew  not 
how  to  trust  the  confession  either  to  each  other  or  toCalantha. 
They  each  more  than  suspected  the  other  of  the  same  love 
for  her,  and  they  each  feared  that  she  would  favor  the  other 
most ;  thus  every  word  and  every  action  of  hers  were  scanned 
by  Edward  and  Charles  with  the  keen  scrutiny  of  a  lover's 
feelings, — while  Calantha,  though  not  altogether  unconscious 
of  similar  thoughts  herself,  yet  imagined  that  she  behaved 
with  equal  and  undivided  regard  to  both. 

This  was  an  irksome  state  of  things :  Mrs.  Graham,  more 
used  to  the  world,  and  more  versed  in  the  observation  of 
mankind  than  either  her  daughter  or  her  young  kinsmen, 
soon  discovered  the  fact,  but  was  totally  at  a  loss  for  a  remedy. 
Glad  as  she  would  have  been  to  see  her  dear  Calantha  hap- 
pily married  to  either  of  the  sons  of  her  departed  friend,  she 
had  too  much  pride  and  propriety  of  feeling  to  take  any  step 
that  might  forward,  or  seem  to  forward,  such  a  result ;  and  she 
therefore  watched  in  silence  for  some  disclosure  that  might 
give  her  a  legitimate  opportunity  of  acting  as  a  mother  ought 
to  act. 

In  a  short  time  Calantha's  reserve  towards  Edward  in- 
creased :  she  shunned  her  usual  walks  with  him;  and  if  they 
were  by  chance  left  in  each  other's  company,  she  seemed 
uneasy  till  some  one  joined  them.  On  the  contrary,  she 
rather  sought  the  society  of  Charles — at  least  it  appeared  so 
to  Edward, — and  when  alone  with  him  or  wThen  he  was  of 
the  party,  would  relax  into  all  her  wonted  sprightliness. 
This  went  to  the  soul  of  Edward ;  and  in  his  lonely  walks  he 


CALANTHA.  HI 

would  thus  soliloquize  : — "It  is  evident  that  Calantha  loves 
me  not;  all  my  attentions,  all  my  cares,  all  my  fondness, 
seem  but  to  make  her  unhappy;  she  either  shuns  my  society, 
or  keeps  a  chilling,  and  to  me  heart-breaking  silence ;  while 
to  my  brother  Charles  she  is  all  that  the  fondest  lover  could 
hope  for  or  desire ; — he  is  sought  after, — with  him  she  is  happy, 
— then,  and  then  only,  burst  forth  those  sallies,  which  were 
once  my  delight,  but  which  now,  when  I  am  convinced  they 
are  not  meant  for  me,  and  when  I  know  and  feel  she  can 
never  be  mine,  'harrow  up  my  soul.'  It  is  certain  that 
she  loves  Charles — dearly  loves  him ;  and  shall  I  stand  be- 
tween the  happiness  of  my  brother  and  that  of  the  woman 
who,  notwithstanding  the  wretchedness  of  my  fate,  I  can 
never  cease  to  adore  ?  Perish  the  thought!  Edward  Murray, 
though  unhappy  himself,  shall  never  be  the  wilful  cause  of 
unhappiness  to  others.  I  will  leave  them — leave  this  once- 
dear  home,  sanctified  by  all  my  fondest  remembrances,  and 
in  some  distant  country  try  to  forget no,  that  is  impossi- 
ble— but  at  least  to  drag  on  my  existence  in  solitary  unshared 
misery." 

His  resolve  once  taken,  Edward  hastened  to  carry  it  into 
effect,  and  with  the  greatest  caution  and  secrecy,  got  together 
the  necessary  supplies  of  clothes,  money,  &c,  for  a  long 
journey;  and  in  a  short  trip  which  he  took  to  London,  under 
a  pretence  of  a  very  different  nature,  placed  out  sufficient 
funds,  in  an  assumed  name,  to  supply  him  with  a  small 
yearly  income,  but  large  enough  for  his  intended  mode  of 
life,  and  which  was  to  be  forwarded  to  him  from  time  to  time 
as  he  might  order.  This  done,  he  had  to  tear  himself  from 
his  birth-place — his  home — the  brother  of  his  heart,  and  the 
woman  whom  he  loved  with  an  affection  pure  and  unbounded, 
but,  alas,  unreturned !  And  this  was  to  be  accomplished  se- 
cretly :  he  must  steal  away,  as  would  a  conscience-stricken 
villain,  in  the  darkness  of  midnight,  from  all  that  he  held 


112  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

dear  upon  earth,  and  cast  himself  upon  the  world  without  a 
home,  and  without  a  friend. 

He  did  it.  In  the  gloom  of  a  November  night,  while  the 
moaning  wind  seemed  to  sound  a  requiem  for  his  departure, 
while  the  few  remaining  leaves  were  scattered  around  his 
aching  head  by  the  blast,  and  the  dreary  desolation  of  nature 
seemed  to  accord  with  the  moodiness  of  his  own  bitter  feelings, 
he  passed  on  foot  down  the  long  avenue  where  he  had  so  often 
gamboled  in  boyish  innocence,  but  which  he  now  seemed  to 
be  leaving  for  ever.  At  the  end  of  it  he  turned  to  look  to- 
wards the  house ;  there  was  still  a  light  in  Calantha's  window, 
at  which  he  gazed  as  though  he  would  send  his  soul  through 
his  eyes,  to  tell  the  dear  object  of  his  fondest  prayers  that 
peace-consuming  secret  which  his  lips  had  never  dared  to 
utter.  How  long  he  would  have  remained  it  is  impossible 
<  to  conjecture  ;  but  the  sound  of  the  wheels  of  the  approaching 
stage-coach,  by  which  he  meant  to  reach  the  metropolis,  and 
the  twanging  of  the  guard's  horn  to  awaken  the  drowsy  toll- 
taker  at  the  neighboring  turnpike,  roused  him  from  his  pain- 
ful reverie,  and  he  turned  into  the  road.  He  was  soon  taken 
up  by  the  coach,  and  the  morning  dawned  on  him  in  London, 
where  every  preparation  had  been  made  for  his  departure  to 
a  distance.  Here  then  we  must  leave  the  distracted  Edward 
to  pursue  his  uncertain  course,  and  return  to  the  no  less  dis- 
tracted family  he  had  left  in  Suffolk. 

To  picture  the  feelings  of  Charles  Murray,  or  of  Calantha 
and  her  mother,  on  the  morning  when  Edward  was  missed, 
would  be  a  vain  attempt.  Their  first  vague  conjectures  led 
them  to  fear  that  he  might  have  destroyed  himself,  recollect- 
ing, as  they  did,  his  late  melancholy  demeanor;  but  this  pang 
was  spared  them  by  the  finding  of  letters  in  his  room  ad- 
dressed to  Mrs.  Graham,  her  daughter  Calantha,  and  his 
brother  Charles.  To  all  of  them  he  said  that  he  should 
depart  from  this  kingdom,  and  endeavor  to  shroud  himself 
from  observation  and  discovery  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  ; 


CALANTHA.  113 

to  Charles  he  confided  all  the  estates,  saying  it  was  quite 
unlikely,  from  the  steps  he  had  taken,  and  from  the  sort  of 
life  he  intended  to  lead,  that  he  should  ever  be  in  want  of 
any  funds  from  them  ;  he  also  named  to  him  the  conviction 
of  his  own  mind,  that  Charles  loved  and  was  beloved  in  re- 
turn by  Calantha;  and  that  this  step  was  taken  by  him  solely 
that  he  might  not  by  his  presence  prevent  a  consummation 
of  that  mutual  affection  which  was  evidently  shown  by  each 
to  the  other.     His  letter  to  Calantha  was  as  follows : — 

"  Ever  dear  Calantha, 

"At  this  moment,  when  I  am  quitting  all  that  is  most 
valuable  to  me  upon  earth,  my  mind  is  in  a  very  unfit  state  to 
dictate  a  disclosure  of  its  own  wretched  feelings ;  but  it  must 
be  done  ;  I  cannot  leave  those  who  have  been  always  so  kind 
and  so  dear  to  me  without  at  least  attempting  to  give  a  reason, 
however  bad  it  maybe,  for  my  conduct.  It  would  be  harrowing 
up  your  soul,  as  well  as  mine,  to  recapitulate  all  the  delightful 
recollections  and  intercourses  of  our  early  years, — recollec- 
tions that  will  now  form  my  only  solace.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
dearest  Calantha,  love  stole  upon  me  so  imperceptibly,  that 
it  was  long  before  I  could  bring  my  heart  to  acknowledge 
that  the  sensations  I  experienced  proceeded  from  it.  Sat- 
isfied at  length  of  the  deepness  and  fullness  of  my  affec- 
tion towards  you,  I  watched  you  in  every  situation  with  the 
scrutinizing  eye  of  a  lover.  Despair — deep  and  inconsolable 
— seized  my  breast  when  I  became  convinced  that  my  brother 
Charles  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  all  that  regard  from  you 
which  I  would  have  given  worlds  to  obtain.  You  shunned 
me:  received  my  civilities  with  coldness:  in  short,  Calantha, 
though  I  blame  you  not  for  loving  a  brother  who  is  dear  to 
me,  yet  I  found  it  impossible  to  stay  and  be  a  spectator  of 
your  happiness,  though  I  call  Heaven  to  witness  that  I  do 
most  sincerely  wish  you  both  every  bliss  that  earth  can  afford, 
and  to  which  I  shall  henceforth  be  a  stranger.    It  is  quite  un- 

10* 


114  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

certain  in  what  part  of  the  world  I  shall  find  a  secluded 
home;  but  wherever  it  may  be,  your  name,  my  beloved  Ca- 
lantha,  will  linger  on  my  lips  amidst  every  prayer  that  I 
shall  offer  to  the  throne  of  Omniscience.  Dearest  Calantha, 
farewell  for  ever! 

"  Edward  Murray." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  scene  of  melancholy 
confusion  which  succeeded  this  event;  and,  indeed  to  attempt 
it  would  swell  this  humble  tale  to  too  great  an  extent ;  how- 
ever, when  a  short  time  had  elapsed,  and  the  first  acute  feel- 
ings of  distress  had  in  some  degree  subsided,  Mrs.  Graham 
delicately  questioned  her  daughter  as  to  the  state  of  her  heart, 
for,  ever  since  the  sudden  departure  of  Edward,  poor  Calantha 
had  been 

"  Like  Niobe — all  tears." 

It  soon  became  apparent  to  this  anxious  mother  that  Charles 
was  not  really  the  favored  idol  of  her  daughter's  affections ; 
on  the  contrary,  she  loved  Edward  with  all  the  fondness  and 
fervency  of  a  first  and  only  love ;  her  appearing  to  shun  him 
— her  silence  and  reserve  in  his  presence — indeed,  everything 
that  the  unhappy  Edward  had  construed  into  a  want  of  af- 
fection, wrere,  in  fact,  but  so  many  proofs  of  it.  She  had 
become  aware  of  the  state  of  her  own  bosom,  but  knew  not 
that  of  his.  Her  whole  conduct  will  be  well  understood  by 
many  who  have  passed  through  this  ordeal  of  love ;  for  it  is 
well  known  that  the  two  persons  who  are  the  fondest  of  each 
other,  are  often  the  last  to  discover  the  truth. 

Need  it  be  said  that  this  unhappy  circumstance  wras  a 
death-blow  to  Calantha's  hopes  and  health?  The  rose  soon 
quitted  her  lovely  cheeks,  and  the  pale  lily  usurped  its  place; 
her  vivacity,  which  had  for  a  long  time  been  forced,  left  her 
altogether;  she  scarcely  ever  quitted  her  own  room,  or  if  she 
did  it  was  to  steal  silently  and  alone  to  some  of  the  favorite 


CALANTHA.  115 

haunts  of  her  loved,  lost  Edward,  where  she  would  remain  in 
a  state  of  grief,  quite  unconscious  of  the  lapse  of  time,  till 
her  fond  and  distressed  mother  would  seek  her  in  her  wander- 
ings, and  prevail  on  her  to  return. 

Charles  Murray,  great  as  was  his  love  for  Calantha,  had 
not  suffered  the  soft  passion  so  far  to  overwhelm  his  reason, 
as  to  sink  under  the  disappointment  when  he  discovered  the 
real  state  of  her  affections;  he,  therefore,  at  once  ceased  to 
pay  her  any  of  the  attentions  expected  from  a  lover,  but 
endeavored  to  make  himself  to  her  indeed  as  an  affectionate 
brother;  and  deeply  did  he  lament  the  sad  mischief  that  was 
thus  innocently  done ;  nay,  he  did  more,  for  besides  trying 
all  the  means  in  his  power  to  console  the  suffering  maid,  he 
took  every  possible  step  to  discover  his  brother's  retreat, 
though  in  vain,  by  journeys  to  London  and  other  places,  and 
by  sending  letters  to  every  friend  he  had,  to  claim  their  as- 
sistance in  his  inquiries. 

On  his  return  from  these  journeys,  he  constantly  found 
Calantha  wrorse, — her  form  more  attenuated,  and  her  counte- 
nance paler  than  before;  still  he  strove  to  comfort  her,  and  to 
win  her  back  to  peace,  but  without  success ; — neither  could 
her  mother  prevail  better ; — the  blow  had  been  too  powerful, 
and  the  poison  had  sunk  too  deep  for  remedy.  Her  yet  lovely 
smile  and  languid  voice  would  thank  her  friends  for  all  their 
attentions,  and  for  all  their  hopes ;  but,  though  she  never  ex- 
pressed herself  in  direct  terms  to  that  effect,  yet  the  blank 
and  utter  despair,  which  but  too  frequently  showed  itself  in 
her  altered  features,  told  the  awful  tale  of  approaching  decay 
— perhaps  of  dissolution  ! 

Medicine  and  medical  men  had  been  employed  till  hope 
was  at  an  end ;  and  Calantha's  physicians  at  length  advised 
that  she  should  be  taken  into  Scotland  to  try  the  effect  of  her 
native  air ;  an  expedient,  I  fear,  too  often  resorted  to  when 
doctors  feel  that  they  can  do  no  more  for  a  patient ;  some- 
times, indeed,  with  what   should  seem  like  greater  cruelty, 


116  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

they  are  sent  to  a  foreign  land,  where  they  too  frequently 
perish  among  strangers,  without  a  friendly  hand  to  close  the 
dying  eye. 

More  than  a  year  had  elapsed  since  the  flight  of  Edward : 
the  sun  of  summer  had  visited  and  renovated  a  smiling  world, 
but  came  in  vain  to  Calantha  Graham  ;  the  snows  and  frosts 
of  winter  had  spread  desolation  around, — but  a  deeper  desola- 
tion froze  the  genial  current  of  her  veins.  The  spring  was 
again  returning,  when  this  journey  was  recommended  to  be 
taken,  in  the  apparently  vain  desire  of  giving  health  and 
happiness  to  a  broken  heart.  Charles  Murray  offered  to  at- 
tend the  hapless  girl  and  her  mother  on  their  tedious  way, 
which  offer  was  gladly  accepted.  The  journey,  upwards  of 
four  hundred  miles,  was  of  course  to  be  accomplished  by 
short  stages  ;  it  was  left  to  Charles  to  manage  the  whole : 
and  by  taking  every  possible  care  as  to  drivers  and  horses, 
and  by  traveling  in  the  new  carriage  which  had  been  sent 
home  to  Edward  just  before  his  departure,  and  which  was 
exceedingly  easy  when  compared  with  the  wretched  vehicles 
often  found  on  the  road,  it  was  managed  so  as  to  save  Calan- 
tha from  much  fatigue  ;  and  she  reached  the  town  of , 

in  Scotland,  better  than  had  been  anticipated,  though  dread- 
fully ill. 

The  magnificent  mountain  scenery  she  had  beheld  on  her 
road  to  the  north,  in  passing  through  the  counties  of  West- 
moreland and  Cumberland,  and  their  beautiful  lakes,  had  in 
some  degree  interested  her  mind ;  and  the  district  to  which 
she  had  come  being  of  the  same  sublime  character,  the  rides 
which  were  taken  either  in  the  carriage  they  had  brought  with 
them,  or  in  a  pony-chaise  which  was  used  for  the  more  narrow 
and  difficult  roads,  always  delighted  the  forlorn  Calantha; 
but  mingled  with  that  delight  came  a  corroding  feeling  that 
poured  bitterness  into  her  soul ; — Edward  was  wanting  to 
complete  every  scene.  The  precipitous  glen,  the  torrent 
struggling  below  among  the  broken  rocks ;  the  blue  expan- 


CALANTHA.  117 

Sive  lake  spread  beneath  the  eye,  and  sleeping  in  seeming 
peace ;  the  distant  mountains,  spotted  with   white  flocks  at 
their  bases,  and  crowned  with  snow  upon  their  summits;  all 
were  fine,  all  should  have  called  forth  expressions  of  gratitude 
and  love  towards  the  Almighty  Being  who  formed  them.    Ca- 
lantha  endeavored  to  awaken  her  soul  to  such  feelings,  but 
could  not ;  or,  at  least,  she  felt  them  but  feebly ;  every  thought 
suggested,  that  were  Edward  but  present  to  share  all  this 
magnificence  and  beauty  of  nature,  her  heart  would  then 
expand  with  all  its  native  warmth  and  happiness.     But  as 
this  was  denied  to  her,  all  the  pains  taken  did  not  advance 
her  recovery  ;  for  though  there  was  no  apparent  increase  of 
disease,  her  form  seemed  to  be  more  wasted,  her  voice  more 
feeble,  and  her  whole  appearance  more  indicative  of  danger 
and  of  death. 

Charles  Murray,  having  remained  with  Mrs.  Graham  and 
her  daughter  till  he  saw  them  comfortably  settled,  as  far  as 
worldly  convenience  could  make  them  so,  returned  to  England. 
Even  this  was  an  additional  blow  to  the  frail  form  of  Calantha ; 
for  though  she  loved  not  Charles  with  the  fervent  affection  she 
cherished  for  Edward,  yet  she  experienced  towards  him  all  the 
feeling  that  a  fond  sister  could  have  done  ;  and,  in  her  deso- 
late state,  his  departure  occasioned  her  many  a  shower  of 

tears. 

After  he  was  gone,  they  frequently  observed  in  their  rides 
a  young  Highlander,  whom  they  had  not  noticed  before, 
sporting  among  the  mountains  with  his  dog  and  gun,  or  fish- 
ing in  the  adjacent  lake.  At  first  this  circumstance  was 
little  thought  of;  but  at  length  it  struck  Mrs.  Graham  as 
being  strange,  that  journey  which  way  they  would,  there  was 
the  Highlander,  first  on  one  hill,  and  then  on  another ;  for 
while  their  carriage  had  been  slowly  winding  round  the  foot 
of  a  high  knoll,  he  had  crossed  its  summit,  and  was  on  the 
opposite  side  before  them.  He  never  approached  very  near, 
but  it  seemed  as  if  he  watched  them  ;  for  what  purpose  it 


US  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY.   • 

was  in  vain  to  conjecture.  Mrs.  Graham's  fears  sometimes 
suggested  that  it  might  be  for  a  bad  purpose  ;  but  the  charac- 
ter of  the  neighborhood,  and  her  own  good  opinion  of  her 
countrymen,  forbade  such  a  supposition ;  still  it  was  extraor- 
dinary, and  wanted  explaining  to  her  mind.  Who,  and 
what  was  he  ?  where  did  he  reside  ?  for  she  had  never  seen 
him  in  the  town.  These  questions  occurred  to  her;  but  how 
were  they  to  be  answered  ?  He  had  no  appearance  of  ferocity, 
for  there  were  a  grace  and  elegance  about  his  form  that  be- 
spoke him  not  of  the  humble  class ;  and  yet,  as  she  knew 
most  of  the  neighboring  gentry,  he  could  not  belong  to  them, 
she  thought.  To  settle  this  point,  if  possible,  she  determined 
to  make  inquiries,  but  they  elicited  little  to  the  purpose :  the 
person  she  had  seen  was  known  as  Mr.  Murdoch,  but  the 
most  usual  name  given  to  him  was  the  Man  of  the  Mountains ; 
for  though  he  had  sojourned  in  that  part  for  many  months, 
yet  he  had  never  entered  the  town,  nor  sought  society  of  any 
kind,  save  that  of  a  churlish  old  man,  who  attended  upon 
him  at  a  distant  shepherd's  cottage  among  the  hills,  which 
he  had  hired  to  reside  in,  and  who  now  and  then  came  to 
market  for  what  articles  they  wanted ;  but  beyond  his  being 
Mr.  Murdoch,  and  having  plenty  of  money,  the  old  man  did 
not,  or  wTould  not,  know  anything. 

This  was  a  romantic  story,  but  not  quite  satisfactory  to 
Mrs.  Graham,  and  her  trips  were  for  some  time  confined  to 
the  vicinity  of  the  town  ;  but  on  one  occasion,  when  the  fine- 
ness of  the  day  had  tempted  her  to  extend  their  ride,  she 
directed  the  lad  who  drove  them  to  go  to  a  certain  summit 
which  commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  whole  expanse  of  the 
lake,  and  the  mountains  surrounding  it ;  the  different  heads 
and  peaks  of  which  amounted  to  more  than  thirty.  This 
was  a  favorite  spot  of  theirs ;  here  they  had  every  variety  of 
mountain  scenery  spread  before  them,  with  all  those  wonder- 
ful and  multifarious  tints,  which,  though  perfectly  true  to 
nature,  are  often  thought  by  the  inexperienced  eye  of  the 


CALANTHA.  119 

lowland  Southron,  when  seen  in  a  picture,  to  be  entirely  the 
work  of  fancy.  Calantha's  only  occupation  now  was  draw- 
ing, and  hither  she  came  to  portray  nature  in  her  magnifi- 
cence and  splendor.  When  near  the  summit,  one  of  the 
horses,  from  the  stinging  of  a  fly,  became  unruly, — a  very 
common  but  a  very  dangerous  circumstance  in  hilly  and 
woody  countries.  The  youthfulness  of  their  driver  rendered 
him  timid;  the  road  was  narrowr,  and  the  hill  on  each  side  of 
it  dangerously  steep ;  one  plunge  of  the  horse  in  a  wrong 
direction  might  hurl  them  to  destruction.  It  was  a  fearful 
moment,  and  dreadful  consequences  might  have  ensued  but 
for  the  providential  interference  of  the  mysterious  Highlander, 
who  was  seen  hastening  from  a  neighboring  hill  at  the  very 
top  of  his  speed,  the  sable  plumes  of  his  bonnet  dancing  in 
the  breeze,  and  his  tartan  cloak  streaming  in  the  wind.  He 
had  thrown  his  gun  from  him  to  prevent  its  impeding  his 
course,  and  in  a  very  short  time  stood  before  the  ungoverna- 
ble steeds ;  thus  allowing  the  driver  to  leave  his  seat,  and 
hand  the  ladies  from  the  carriage.  Calantha  was  in  an  almost 
fainting  state,  and  her  mother  could  scarcely  support  her, 
when,  as  soon  as  the  driver  had  returned  to  his  horses,  and 
was  leading  them  to  a  place  of  comparative  safety,  Murdoch, 
the  Man  of  the  Mountains,  rushed — rudely,  as  it  seemed — to 
the  support  of  the  trembling  fair  one.  His  assistance  was 
useful,  but  Mrs.  Graham  liked  it  not  from  a  stranger,  and 
was  about  to  request  that  he  would  not  trouble  himself  longer, 
as  she  saw  her  daughter  was  recovering,  when  the  stranger, 
having  perceived  the  same  thing,  fervently  ejaculated  "Ca- 
lantha, dearest  Calantha!"  but  apparently  overpowered  by 
his  feelings,  could  not  utter  more.  It  was  Edward  Murray! 
— The  sudden  shock  again  threw  Calantha  into  a  state  of 
insensibility,  and  he  cursed  his  own  imprudence  and  thought- 
lessness for  betraying  himself;  for  as  yet  he  knew  not  the 
feelings  of  the  suffering  Calantha's  heart ;  he  deemed  her 
illness  to  have  been  the  result  of  anything  but  love  for  him, 


120  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

and  still  imagined  that  her  affections  were  placed  on  his  bro- 
ther Charles.  Here  it  may  be  as  well  to  state,  that  on  his 
departure  from  London,  Edward  had  fixed  on  no  particular 
spot  for  his  residence ;  but  his  wayward  fancy  led  him  first 
to  seek  his  father's  country,  and  his  Calantha's  birth-place; 
when  the  thought  struck  him  that  he  might  here  make  his 
home  "unknowing  and  unknown."  He  had  therefore  hired 
the  cottage,  and  the  old  man  as  a  servant,  and  continued  to 
live  the  sort  of  life  we  have  heard,  till  surprised  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  Mrs.  Graham,  her  daughter  Calantha,  and  his 
brother  Charles  in  the  neighborhood.  He  soon  discovered 
that  Calantha  was  ill ;  but  the  fact  of  Charles  being  with  her, 
confirmed  his  idea  of  their  mutual  love ;  and  until  his  bro- 
ther had  departed  for  England,  he  avoided  the  routes  which 
they  took;  but  after  that  a  feeling  too  strong  to  be  suppressed 
drew  him  across  their  path,  and  wherever  Calantha  and  her 
mother  went,  he  followed.  This  was  a  melancholy  pleasure 
to  him,  and  his  whole  time  was  passed  in  watching  their 
movements;  he  could  give  no  reason  to  his  own  heart  for  this 
conduct;  he  was  without  hope;  he  meant  not  to  discover 
himself,  and  yet  he  pursued  the  same  course. 

We  have  seen  the  chance  that  betrayed  his  secret,  and  his 
first  thoughts  were  turned  upon  instant  flight.  Calantha  still 
continued  insensible,  and  with  the  assistance  of  the  driver 
had  been  placed  in  the  carriage.  Edward  silently  walked 
by  its  side  till  it  had  reached  the  level  road,  when  he  said  to 
Mrs.  Graham:  "I  have  unwittingly  placed  myself  in  your 
way,  and  I  fear  my  presence  has  destroyed  poor  Calantha, 
who  is  dear  to  me  as  ever  ;  but  I  meant  it  not;  I  have  always 
wished,  and  I  do  still  wish  her  every  happiness  with  my 
brother  Charles.  Before  sunrise  to-morrow  I  shall  quit  this 
place,  and  this  part  of  the  world  for  ever: — farewell!"  So 
saying,  he  was  turning  away,  when  Mrs.  Graham  exclaimed : 
"For  God's  sake,  Edward,  be  not  so  rash;  for  our  dear  Ca- 
lantha's, for  mine,  for  your  own  sake,  stay!     This  is  not  a 


CALANTHA.  121 

place,  or  a  time  to  explain ;  but  Calantha's  life  depends  on 
your  remaining!  I  charge  you,  Edward,  by  all  your  old  re- 
membrances, by  the  memory  of  your  departed  parents,  by  all 
your  hopes  of  happiness,  to  continue  in  your  present  abode 
till  to-morrow.  In  the  morning  come  to  me  in  the  town,  and 
I  will  explain  all.  God  bless  you,  and  remember  Calantha's 
life  is  in  your  hands!" 

The  carriage  slowly  proceeded,  and  Edward  returned  dis- 
consolately to  his  cottage  in  the  mountains.  Yet  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham's parting  words  hung  upon  his  memory,  with  a  gleam 
of  returning  hope :  "Calantha'*  s  life  is  in  your  hands  V  What 
could  she  mean?  It  must  be  that  she  loved  him.  It  proved 
so.  The  early  morning  saw  him  in  the  presence  of  his  re- 
spected friend, Mrs.  Graham.  She  did  explain  all;  and  gave 
back  happiness  to  Edward  Murray:  Calantha  loved  him  be- 
yond all  on  earth!  Yet  with  this  intelligence  came  a  pang; — 
Calantha  was  dreadfully  ill.  But  over  her  soul  too  a  balm 
had  spread  itself,  the  only  one  that  could  minister  to  her  dis- 
eased mind;  the  man  of  her  heart's  warmest  affections  was 
restored  to  her  by  a  seeming  miracle;  again  she  heard  his 
voice;  and  now  that  their  loves  were  confessed,  she  could 
rest  her  head  on  his  shoulder  in  confidence  and  peace. 

Health  soon  returned  to  her  wasted  form,  spreading  its 
living  rose  upon  her  lately  pallid  cheek;  and  before  she  left 
Scotland,  she  frequently,  with  agile  step,  accompanied  by  her 
dear  Edward,  the  Man  of  the  Mountains,  sought  the  hill 
where  he  had  been  restored  to  her.  Charles  had  been  writ- 
ten to,  and  with  a  truly  brotherly  love,  joined  the  happy  party 
as  quickly  as  a  post-chaise  and  four  horses  could  enable  him. 
Little  remains  to  be  said:  Edward  and  Calantha  returning 
to  the  mansion  in  Suffolk,  were  united  at  the  adjoining  vil- 
lage church,  and  the  day  of  their  union  was  a  jubilee  to  the 
whole  neighborhood.  Before  Calantha  had  presented  her 
Edward  with  their  first  child,  Charles  was  happily  married 
to  the  only  daughter  of  a  wealthy  baronet,  and  purchased  an 
11 


122  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

estate  near  them  ;  while  the  two  families  continued  for  many 
years  to  be  as  happy  and  united  as  love  and  friendship  could 
make  them. 


PERUGIA. 


BT  THE  REV.  CHARLES  STRONG. 


Is  this  the  spot  where  Rome's  eternal  foe 
Into  his  snares  the  famous  legions  drew, 
Whence  from  the  carnage,  spiritless  and  few, 

A  remnant  scarcely  reach'd  her  gates  of  woe? 

Is  this  the  stream,  thus  gliding  soft  and  slow, 
That  from  the  gushing  wounds  of  thousands  grew 
So  fierce  a  flood,  that  waves  of  crimson  hue 

Rush'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  lake  below? 
The  mountains  that  gave  back  the  battle-cry, 

Are  voiceless  now ;  perchance  yon  hillocks  green 
Mark  where  the  bones  of  those  old  warriors  lie. 

Heaven  never  gladden'd  a  more  peaceful  scene, 
Never  left  softer  breeze  a  fairer  sky, 

To  sport  upon  thy  waters,  Thrasymene ! 


THE  ORPHAN  FAMILY. 


BY  MHS.  HOFLAJfD. 


There  are  inflictions  which,  from  their  peculiarity,  sud- 
denness, or  severity,  call  on  the  sympathies  of  our  nature 
with  a  voice  so  imperative  as  to  be  irresistible,  and  excite  the 
thoughtless,  not  less  than  the  considerate,  to  exercise  the 
offices  of  humanity.  Such  was  the  case  when  farmer  Little- 
wood  and  his  wife  died  within  a  few  hours  of  each  other 
from  the  attack  of  a  virulent  fever,  which  had  already  carried 
off  the  youngest  of  their  children,  and  reduced  to  extreme 
debility  the  three  others  who  survived  them. 

"What  can  we  do  for  the  poor  orphans?"  said  all  their 
late  neighbors  to  each  other;  and  every  mother  in  the  little 
village  °of  Fulhvood  had  some  treasured  recipe,  or  dainty 
morsd,  that  could  aid  the  suffering,  and  sustain  the  conva- 
lescent; and  every  father  was  ready  to  lend  a  helping  hand 
in  the  labor  required  for  their  grounds  and  their  cattle.  Ihe 
awful  circumstance  of  three  funerals  issuing  from  the  same 
house,  three  pale  and  helpless  children  weeping  over  such 
accumulated  losses,  touched  every  heart,  and  opened  every 

aBy  decrees  the  poor  children  emerged  from  sickness  and 
sorrow,  and  their  humble  friends  consulted  on  what  must  be 
their  future  destination,  for  the  landlord  had  claimed  the  right 
of  selling  the  stock  and  resuming  the  land,  as  they  had  no 
relations  on  either  side,  save  a  rich  aunt  of  their  mother  s, 


124  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

who  lived  in  London,  and  had  no  intercourse  with  the  de- 
ceased. It  was  the  wise  advice  of  the  schoolmaster  that  this 
lady  should  in  the  first  place  be  written  to;  for,  since  she 
was  a  rich  woman,  and  single,  it  could  hardly  happen  that  a 
circumstance  which  had  impressed  them  all  so  deeply  would 
fail  in  moving  her  compassion,  and  obtaining  that  assistance 
which  was  more  particularly  required  for  the  farmer's  only 
son,  then  but  five  years  old. 

To  this  touching  appeal  the  lady  granted  a  prompt  reply : 
she  professed  herself  willing  to  take  a  girl,  provided  "  she 
was  too  old  to  be  troublesome,  clever  enough  to  be  capable 
of  accomplishment,  and  tolerably  pretty."  The  child  so 
taken  would  be  educated  as  her  future  heir  and  present  com- 
panion, and  must  "on  no  account  hold  intercourse  with  the 
relatives  she  was  leaving,  as  such  conduct  would  for  ever 
forfeit  her  favor,  and  subject  her  to  a  poverty  which  would 
necessarily  be  more  painful  than  that  which  she  was  quit- 
ting." 

Elizabeth,  the  eldest,  was  a  girl  of  fourteen,  and,  before 
her  illness,  a  blooming,  active,  lively  creature,  the  "  little 
busy  bee"  of  the  household.  Alice,  the  next,  was  a  delicate, 
timid  flower,  whom  the  fond  mother  was  wont  to  call  her 
"  lady-bird,"  and  whom  the  affectionate  sister  warmly  offered 
to  be  chosen  as  "  fit  for  the  purpose,  and  sure  to  please  a 
gentlewoman."  Nor  did  her  generous  renunciation  of  the 
"grand  offer"  stop  there;  for  she  anxiously  soothed  the  mind 
of  the  weeping  child,  pointed  out  to  her  the  future  blessings 
she  would  ensure,  and  promised  faithfully  that  she  would  be 
a  mother  to  little  James,  the  fondly  beloved  of  both,  but  to 
the  younger  almost  an  object  of  idolatry. 

Midst  youthful  hopes,  anxious  forebodings,  and  the  bitter 
tears  which  follow  such  severings  of  affectionate  hearts,  Alice 
departed.  Well  did  Elizabeth  fulfill  her  promise  to  him  that 
remained,  by  placing  all  the  produce  of  their  sale  in  the 
hands  of  the  good  schoolmaster,  entreating  him  to  take  that 


THE    ORPHAN    FAMILY.  125 

and  James  with  it,  in  order  to  bring  him  up  decently  till  he 
was  able  to  help  himself.  She  then  entered  into  the  service 
of  the  'squire's  family,  as  assistant  to  the  housekeeper  and 
dairy-maid,  thankful  that  her  unceasing  exertions  entitled 
her  to  the  welcome  reward  of  occasionally  seeing  her  little 
brother,  and  lavishing  on  him  all  the  tenderness  with  which 
her  bosom  overflowed,  and  which  his  desolate  situation  de- 
manded. 

Elizabeth  did  honor  to  the  education  (the  purely  useful 
education)  she  had  received  from  a  most  exemplary  mother. 
The  boast  of  the  housekeeper,  "that  her  butter  was  the 
sweetest,  her  curds  the  whitest  in  the  village — that  she  could 
sew  better  than  the  lady's  maid,  and  read  the  Bible  as  well 
as  his  honor,"  drew  attention  to  her  merits,  and  secured 
lighter  labors,  abundant  kindness,  and  intellectual  improve- 
ment. What  was  best  of  all,  it  enabled  her  to  provide  for 
the  increasing  wants  of  the  poor  boy,  who  had  no  other  friend 
or  parent. 

The  time  came,  however,  when  another  object  claimed  a 
share  in  the  affections  of  Elizabeth.  When  she  was  about 
nineteen,  her  master's  son,  a  naval  officer,  returned  from  a 
long  absence,  attended  by  one  whom  he  called  a  servant  but 
treated  as  a  friend  ;  for  they  had  shared  those  dangers  toge- 
ther which  displayed  the  virtues,  and  proved  the  faithfulness 
of  honest  Ben  Bloomfield.  The  frank-hearted  sailor  was 
struck  a  little  with  Elizabeth's  person,  which  was  indeed  at- 
tractive ;  but  the  story  of  her  early  misfortunes,  and  the 
witnessing  of  her  affection  for  little  James,  entirely  won  his 
love,  and  he  offered  to  take  both  for  better  and  worse,  so 
kindly  and  sincerely  as  to  prove  irresistible  in  his  entreaties. 

The  young  captain  gave  Elizabeth  away  at  the  altar.  Not 
only  the  family,  but  her  former  neighbors,  loaded  her  with 
proofs  of  their  affection,  and  she  departed  from  her  native 
place,  with  the  good  wishes  of  all  who  had  known  her,  for  a 
residence  on  the  sea-coast,  that  she  might  be  better  able  to 

IP 


126  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

secure  the  society  of  her  husband,  in  those  brief  intervals 
allowed  by  his  professional  duties;  a  circumstance  the  more 
desirable,  because  James  was  determined  to  accompany  him 
to  sea. 

Elizabeth  had  now  a  neat  home  of  her  own,  an  income 
equal  to  her  wishes,  and  a  husband  so  kind,  that  he  sought 
to  render  her  sister  the  companion  who  should  solace  her 
solitary  hours;  but  his  attempt  was  repelled  with  disdain  by 
the  aunt  who  had  taken  her,  and  who  informed  him  in  reply, 
"that  Miss  Littlewood  was  about  to  change  her  name,  and 
herself  to  remove,  by  which  means  she  hoped  to  escape  from 
unwelcome  intrusion." 

The  birth  of  a  little  girl,  whom  she  named  Alice,  some- 
what consoled  Elizabeth  for  this  disappointment ;  and  in  a 
short  time  her  own  rapidly  increasing  family,  and  the  anxiety 
inseparable  from  a  wife  and  mother  so  situated,  might  be  said 
to  engross  her  wholly.  Her  husband  rose  rapidly  in  the  ser- 
vice, and  increased,  if  possible,  in  her  love  and  esteem.  But 
with  his  improved  circumstances  came  also  longer  absences 
and  increased  dangers ;  and  often  would  her  sinking  heart 
be  sensible  how  possible  it  is 

"  To  feel  a  thousand  deaths  in  fearing  one.'' 

It  was  not,  however,  her  lot  (as  it  is  that  of  many  similarly 
situated)  to  mourn  for  those  whom  they  behold  no  more. 
Benjamin  and  James  were  indeed  wrecked  on  a  distant  coast; 
but  they  escaped  with  life,  and  returned  in  poverty  and  sick- 
ness to  the  afflicted  wife  and  sister.  By  slow  degrees  James 
was  restored ;  but  the  fond  husband  died,  and  the  sorrows  of 
Elizabeth's  childhood  were  renewed  in  her  widowhood,  for 
three  desolate  children  called  her  mother. 

But  far  worse  was  her  present  situation  than  the  past. 
Her  little  savings  had  been  expended  before  the  return  of  the 
afflicted  wanderers :  the  expenses  of  their  sickness  had  taken 
her  furniture;  and  to  procure  the  decent  interment  of  her 


THE    ORPHAN    FAMILY.  127 

beloved  husband,  even  her  clothing  had  been  sacrificed.  She 
was  far  from  her  native  place,  and  had  formed  no  acquaint- 
ance in  that  where  she  resided  capable  of  assisting  her.  Her 
health  was  injured  by  sorrow,  and  the  energy  of  her  mind  so 
impaired  by  suffering,  that  whilst  she  felt  herself  called  upon 
to  live  and  to  labor  for  the  helpless  babes  around  her,  she  yet 
felt  an  utter  incapacity  for  exertion :  in  the  emphatic  language 
of  Holy  Writ,  "the  whole  head  was  faint,  and  the  whole  heart 
was  sick." 

With  affectionate  solicitude,  and  the  grateful  affection 
awakened  by  the  memory  of  the  past,  did  poor  James  urge 
her  to  unite  with  him  in  endeavoring  to  gain  even  scanty  food 
by  making  matches  and  weaving  laces  and  cabbage  nets, 
which  he  crept  out  to  sell,  and  by  degrees  regained  sufficient 
strength  to  offer  himself  as  an  errand-runner,  or  assistant  to 
the  market-gardeners  near  them.  By  one  of  these  he  was 
recommended  as  a  poor,  but  honest  lad,  who  would  assist  in" 
weeding  the  grounds  around  a  handsome  villa,  which  was 
taken  for  a  month  by  a  wealthy  couple,  who  sought  the 
benefit  of  residence  on  the  coast  during  that  period. 

To  a  family  "ready  to  perish,"  even  the  daily  acquisition 
of  a  small  sum  was  an  object  to  awaken  not  only  thankful- 
ness but  hope,  and  poor  Elizabeth  roused  her  mind  to  devise 
the  means  of  gaining  farther  relief  through  the  same  channel. 
But,  alas!  her  strength  was  gone — the  will  to  labor  was  un- 
supported by  the  power;  and  when  James  announced  the 
arrival  of  the  family,  she  wept  bitterly  over  that  weakness 
which  forbade  her  offering  to  be  their  laundress,  and  that  de- 
plorable appearance  which  would  prevent  them  from  trusting 
her  as  a  seamstress.  "Yet,  my  dear  sister,"  said  James, 
"I  must  beg  you  to  cheer  up  a  little,  and  even  to  see  the 
lady.  I  am  sure  they  are  good  people,  for  though  they  knew 
I  was  paid  by  the  gardener,  they  have  given  me  half-a-crown. 
If  they  were  to  see  you  and  the  children,  who  knows  how 
kind  they  would  be?" 


128  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

Elizabeth  faintly  smiled,  as  she  looked  on  the  fair  faces  of 
her  fatherless  babes,  and  felt  a  mother's  pride  in  their  beauty, 
whilst  she  inwardly  blest  the  kind  hand  which  enabled  her 
once  more  to  find  them  a  sufficient  meal.  "When  this  her 
first  care  was  over  she  began  eagerly  to  question  James  on 
the  subject  of  his  benefactors. 

"You  must  know,  sister,  the  'squire  is  quite  an  old  gen- 
tleman, lame  and  infirm,  which  I  take  it  was  the  reason  why 
he  pitied  me  for  being  pale  and  thin,  and  called  his  beautiful 
young  wife  to  come  and  look  at  me ;  and  she  did  look  with 
such  kind  eyes,  Elizabeth,  I  could  have  thought  it  was  you 
that  gazed  upon  me." 

"  She  is  a  good  lady,  undoubtedly,  James,  and  perhaps  not 
a  very  happy  one:  all  have  their  troubles." 

"I  think  she  had  none  till  she  saw  me,  for  her  face  was 
smiling  and  her  step  light ;  but  when  I  told  her  I  was  an 
orphan,  with  one  friend  only,  and  that  a  widowed  sister,  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  turned  away  her  head  to 
hide  them.  At  that  moment  the  old  gentleman  popped  the 
money  into  my  hand,  and  said,  '  Go  away  now,  my  good  fel- 
low ;  Mrs.  Delville  will  see  you  to  morrow,  and  talk  about 
your  poor  sister.'  " 

The  next  morning  Elizabeth,  after  making  her  pretty 
children  as  neat  as  she  could,  struggled  for  their  sakes 
against  the  shrinking  modesty  of  her  nature,  and  determined 
to  take  the  earnest  advice  of  her  brother  and  throw  herself 
before  this  charitable  pair  as  an  object  of  pity.  Still  desiring 
to  claim  help  through  any  medium  rather  than  that  of  down- 
right beggary,  she  collected  her  humble  merchandize  into  a 
basket,  which  was  carried  by  James,  while  the  hands  of  little 
Alice  were  filled  with  matches. 

They  proceeded  by  an  unfrequented  path  towards  the  villa, 
and  whilst  they  were  still  at  some  distance,  Elizabeth,  over- 
come with  trepidation  and  the  fatigue  of  carrying  her  babe, 
sat  down  on  the  wall  of  a  ruined  building  to  rest  herself. 


THE    ORPHAN    FAMILY.  129 

Scarcely  had  she  done  so,  when  James  saw  the  garden  gate 
open,  and  the  ill-matched  but  apparently  happy  couple  ad- 
vancing towards  the  spot  where  they  were.  "Look  up, 
sister,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  lady  is  coming! — see  how  beau- 
tiful she  is ;  her  hair  light  and  curling  like  your  own  little 
Alice's,  and  when  she  is  near,  you  will  see  that  her  eyes 
are  just  as  blue." 

Elizabeth  could  not  look  till  the  lady  stood  beside  her  and 
addressed  her  in  a  voice  full  of  courtesy  and  kindness — it 
came  over  her  like  the  memory  of  music  heard  in  days  gone 
by.  Whilst  she  was  asking  herself  "if  it  were  possible  that 
this  could  be  one  of  her  young  ladies  at  the  Hall?"  little 
Alice  interrupted  the  current  of  her  thoughts  by  addressing 
James:  "See  here,  Uncle  Littlewood,  the  good  gentleman 
has  given  me  a  white  ha'penny  for  my  matches." 

"Littlewood!  Littlewood!"  cried  the  lady,  in  great  emo- 
tion, "  can  he  be  James  Littlewood  of  Fullwood? — but  surely, 
surely,  it  cannot  be  James!" 

"Yes,  madam,  it  is  poor  little  James,  and  I  am  Elizabeth. 
I  now  remember  you,  dear  lady! — may  God  for  ever  bless  you, 

my  beloved " 

These  words  were  uttered  in  extreme  trepidation,  and  the 
latter  in  a  mere  whisper,  for  the  widow,  overpowered  as  she 
was  by  joy  and  surprise,  yet  dreaded  to  injure  the  sister  lost 
so  long,  yet  still  held  so  dear.  She  would  indeed  have  in- 
stantly withdrawn,  had  not  Mrs.  Delville,  equally  astonished, 
but  of  course  far  more  affected  with  the  discovery,  sunk 
almost  fainting  in  the  arms  of  him  who  was  ill  able  to  sus- 
tain  her — him  whom  our  impoverished  family  beheld  with  a 
timid  and  deprecating  air,  as  if  to  beseech  his  mercy,  not 
for  themselves,  much  as  they  needed  it,  but  for  the  lovely  and 
artless  one,  who  had  confessed  her  alliance  with  poverty  like 
theirs. 

"Alice,  my  beloved  Alice!"  said  the  generous  husband, 
"do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  overpowered  thus;  you  cannot 


130  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 


doubt  my  joy  in  finding  your  relations,  and  thereby  adding 
to  your  happiness." 

"Doubt!  oh,  no!  I  cannot,  do  not  doubt  your  goodness, 
since  it  turned  the  misery  of  a  dependence,  worse  than  even 
this  poverty,  into  happiness.  Still  I  grieve  that  I  should  have 
allied  you  to  positive  beggary,  though  I  am  certain  such  beg- 
gary is  allied  to  virtue." 

"  Hear  me,  dear  Alice !  To  me  you  have  been  the  best  gift 
of  Heaven,  and  you  have  indeed  bestowed  on  me  every  comfort 
save  one,  an  heir.  This  brother  of  yours  may,  if  he  pleases, 
become  such. — To  this  widowed  sister  I  will  immediately 
transfer  the  fortune  left  by  your  aunt  to  you,  since  your  good- 
ness to  me  for  five  long  tedious  years  is  more  than  a  sufficient 
dower.     For  the  present  we  had  better  part." 

"Oh  yes,  sir,  certainly,  sir,"  was  echoed  by  all. 

"  Take  this  pocket-book,  relieve  your  wants,  remove  to 
London,  and  on  our  return  we  will  meet  as  friends  after  a 
long  absence.  From  that  time  James  shall  belong  to  me, 
but  never  shall  he  forget  that  Elizabeth  was  the  friend  of  his 
infancy,  any  more  than  my  Alice  that  she  resigned  the  goods 
of  fortune  for  her  sake." 

The  friends  separated  ;  when  they  again  met,  the  shoeless 
weeding-boy  was  not  recollected  in  the  smart  midshipman, 
and  the  handsome  widow  "  clothed  in  silk  attire"  was  deemed 
a  suitable  sister  for  the  elegant  Mrs.  Delville.  Health  re- 
visited the  benefactor,  and  never  did  the  bright  eyes  of  his 
beloved  Alice  shine  with  such  joy  as  when  she  gazed  on  her 
infant  nieces,  save  when  she  turned  in  a  transport  of  grati- 
tude to  that  excellent  man  whom  she  loved  and  honored  as 
the  restorer  of  her  dearest  connections,  the  earthly  saviour  of 
an  Orphan  Family. 


MY  STELLA'S  RETURN. 


BT  H.  BRANDRETH,  ESQ.. 

Away  care  and  sorrow,  dark  visions  away- 
Bright  Phoebus  is  shining,  and  sweet  blooms  the  May : 
Away  then,  nor  here  let  your  revels  be  seen, 
For  cool  is  the  fountain,  and  fragrant  the  green. 

But  here  bring  the  garland  with  flow'rets  inwove, 
To  grace  the  fair  brow  of  the  maiden  I  love ; 
My  Stella's  return'd— reddest  roses  entwine, 
And  bid  the  crown'd  goblet  blush  deeper  with  wine. 

'Tis  well,  boon  companions,  you  ask  for  a  toast: 
Then— "Here's  to  the  girl  I've  loved  longest  and  most!" 
Affections,  tho'  blighted,  may  still  remain  true, 
As  clouds  dim  the  sky,  yet  destroy  not  its  blue. 

And  can  I  e'er  banish  the  fond  thoughts  that  stole, 
Like  music's  soft  tones,  to  the  depth  of  my  soul  ? 
No,  never,  my  Stella— hope's  ray  tho'  'tis  set, 
And  oceans  divide  us— we  cannot  forget. 

It  was  not  thy  beauty  that  dared  to  entwine 
Love's  chain  round  my  heart,  tho'  young  beauty  was  thine; 
But  friendship— such  friendship  as  brothers  receive 
From  fondest  of  sisters,  to  me  thou  didst  give. 


132  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

I  sought  not  affection — I  knew  'twas  in  vain — 
Yet  more  than  mere  friendship  had  dared  to  remain : 
Adieu!  and  may  happiness  still  light  thy  brow, 
As  I  once  was  happy,  oh!  ever  be  thou! 

Yet  still  if  it  chance  that  my  name  thou  shouldst  hear, 
0  drop,  love,  in  pity  to  friendship — a  tear! 
And  some  kindred  spirit  the  gem  shall  enshrine, 
And  bear  it  to  mingle,  my  Stella,  with  mine. 

The  sun  which  now  sets,  my  dear  girl,  in  the  west, 
And  sinks  in  fond  transport  on  Thetis'  soft  breast, 
So  set  when  we  parted,  and  bade  me  ne'er  see 
It  so  setting  again  without  thinking  of  thee. 

And  oft  as  I've  seen  it,  so  oft  has  thy  form, 

In  fancy  appearing,  assuaged  the  black  storm 

That  swelled  my  proud  heart,  when  some  fair  one's  dark  eye 

Flashed  triumph  as  burst  from  my  bosom  the  sigh. 

Ere  long,  and  to  some  distant  clime  I  may  go, 
'Twill  soothe  it,  perchance,  but  not  banish  my  woe ; 
For  memory  will  still,  with  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
Seek  the  home  and  the  friends  that  are  left  far  behind. 


FLORA; 


OR 


THE    WEDDING    DAY. 

It  was  a  delightful  summer's  day,  and  the  little  village  of 

H was  a  scene  of  commotion,  which  evidently  showed 

that  some  event  of  consequence  had  happened,  or  was  ex- 
pected instantly  to  take  place.     The  inhabitants  were  bus- 
tling about  with  an  air  of  importance  and  business,  resembling 
that  which  we  often  see  assumed  by  one  of  your  visionary 
politicians,  who  fancies  that  he  carries  the  affairs  of  the  nation 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  that  he  is  of  the  utmost  importance 
to  its  happiness}- when,  sooth  to  say,  no  one  but  himself  knows 
or  cares  whether  such  a  being  exists  or  not.     The  three  bells 
in  the  steeple  of  the  rustic  church  were  (what  is  technically 
termed  raising)  giving  indications  that  a  merry  peal  would 
shortly  be  rung  upon  those  national  instruments.    The  bailiff 
and  chief  constable,  the  only  official  men  in  the  village,  were 
seen  hastening  across  the  green  to  the  court-house,  attended 
by  their  underlings  in  office,  and  preparations  were  making 
by  the  inhabitants  of  all  classes  for  an  illumination  in  the 
evening;  whilst  a  large  pile  of  fagots,  collected  upon  the 
green  we  have  before  mentioned,  and  arranged  around  a  lofty 
staff  surmounted  by  a  tar-barrel,  denoted  that  the  old  Eng- 
lish mode  of,  rejoicing,  by  kindling  a  bonfire,  was  not  to  be 
forgotten.     But,  perhaps,  the  best  sight  of  all  was,  to  see  a 
12 


134  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

number  of  children,  girls  and  boys,  running  about,  whose 
uniform  dress  and  extreme  neatness  showed  that  they  be- 
longed to  some  charity  school,  in  which  great  attention  was 
paid  to  their  appearance,  and,  as  was  seen  by  their  demeanor, 
to  their  conduct  also.  The  girls  carried  little  baskets,  and 
both  were  evidently  engaged  in  begging  flowers,  as  they 
were  seen  to  stop  at  the  doors  of  all  the  cottages  to  which 
gardens  were  attached,  and  their  store  was  augmented  from 
each  application.  We  had  almost  overlooked  the  village  inn, 
an  offence  which  would  never  have  been  forgiven  by  honest 
Boniface,  the  landlord  of  the  Wilson's  Arms,  wiio  was  now 
in  his  element,  scolding  here,  ordering  there,  and,  perhaps, 
in  a  third  place,  chucking  a  pretty  smiling  bar-maid  under 
the  chin,  (Boniface  was  a  bachelor,  I  must  inform  my  readers), 
with  a  "  Come,  Bessy,  keep  a  good  heart,  girl,  look  to  the 
things  briskly ;  have  everything  tidy  and  in  order,  and  what 
I  calls  comfortable,  as  I  once  heard  a  man  say  in  the  play, 
when  I  went  to  the  play-house  at  the  market-town  there ;  and 
who  knows,  girl,  but  thou  mayest  get  thee  a  husband  before 
night?" 

The  Wilson's  Arms  was  situated  on  the  south  side  of  the 
village-green,  on  which  preparations  were  making  for  a  va- 
riety of  popular  sports.  Here  hung  a  chemise,  richly  deco- 
rated with  ribbons,  for  which  a  number  of  rustic  Atalantas 
were  to  contend  in  the  race ;  there  was  a  hat  intended  as  a 
prize  for  the  victor  in  a  match  at  jumping  at  sacks ;  a  belt, 
to  be  given  to  him  whose  power  in  wrestling  was  superior  to 
that  of  his  competitors,  was  also  displayed;  with  various 
other  articles,  to  be  bestowed  as  rewards  upon  the  successful 
candidates  in  feats  of  agility  or  strength.  Three  barrels  of 
strong  ale,  standing  in  front  of  the  inn,  were  to  be  broached 
in  the  course  of  the  day;  and  several  brisk  lads  and  lasses 
were  engaged  in  carrying  tressels,  planks,  forms,  &c,  to  a 
neighboring  barn,  that  was  to  serve  as  a  hall  f<*r  refreshment 
during  the  day  and  a  ball-room  at  night. 


FLORA.  135 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  bustling  preparations,  a  humble 
chaise  and  pair  drove  up  to  the  Wilson's  Arms :  two  gentle- 
men who  alighted  from  it  entered  the  house,  requesting  to  be 
shown  to  a  room,  and  to  have  breakfast  sent  in  immediately. 
Neither  of  them  was  apparently  more  than  thirty  years  of 
age,  but  both  bore  the  marks  of  travel  upon  their  brows; 
and  it  was  evident  that  they  were  but  recently  arrived  from  a 
much  hotter  climate  than  England  happily  possesses,  from  their 
embrowned  complexions,  on  which  the  sun's  rays  had  appa- 
rently been  acting  for  some  years.  The  bustle  in  the  village 
had  attracted  their  notice,  as,  indeed,  it  was  impossible  but  it 
should ;  and  whilst  their  breakfast  was  getting  ready,  they 
summoned  their  host,  who  entered  the  room  smirking  and 
rubbing  his  hands  with  an  air  of  self-satisfaction,  which 
showed  that  he  was  perfectly  at  ease  with  himself,  and  with 
everything  around  him. 

"Here  I  am,  gentlemen,  waiting  your  commands;  and 
though  I  say  it  that  should  not  say  it,  there  are  few  things  you 
can  call  for  but  the  Wilson's  Arms  will  furnish.  The  best 
inn,  sirs,  as  every  traveler  will  tell  you,  within  forty  miles." 

"Well,  honest  Toby,"  said  the  youngest  of  the  strangers — 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  my  name  is  not  Toby;  Boniface  Barley- 
corn, sir,  at  your  service.  A  name,  sir,  which  I  have  borne, 
man  and  boy,  these  fifty  years." 

"Indeed!  well,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Barleycorn  Boni- 
face"— 

"Boniface  Barleycorn,  sir." 

"  Boniface  Barleycorn  be  it,  then.  Have  you  lived  here 
long?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  was  born  here:  here  in  this  very  house,  and 
in  the  chamber,  sir,  directly  above  this  parlor — the  window 
of  which  opens  to  the  green,  and  commands  a  fine  view  of 
the  'squire's  house  in  the  distance.  Yes,  I  was  born  here, 
sir;  and  so  was  my  father,  and  my  grandfather,  sir  ;  and  my 


136  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

great-grandfather;  and,  for  aught  I  know,  all  my  ancestors 
as  far  back  as  Adam  himself." 

"Then  you  think  the  Wilson's  Arms  was  in  being  before 
the  deluge,  hey,  my  fine  fellow?" 

"Can't  say,  sir;  I  never  bother  my  head  with  such  un- 
profitable speculations.  I  take  things  as  I  find  them ;  and 
don't  stop  to  inquire  as  to  their  origin  or  antiquity." 

"A  very  sensible  practice,  upon  my  word;  but  we  want 
to  know  the  meaning  of  all  this  stir  in  your  village,  old 
Boni." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir;  but  I  don't  like  to  be  called  'Boni:' 
it  puts  one  in  mind  of  that  fellow  'cross  the  water  yonder ; 
and  I'm  a  true  Englishman,  sir,  and  love  my  king,  and  detest 
Bonaparte  and  all  Frenchmen." 

"As  a  right  honest  John  Bull  should  do.  Give  us  your 
hand,  my  old  boy!"  and  the  gay  spark  seized  the  broad  palm 
of  Boniface,  and  gave  it  a  hearty  shake — so  hearty,  indeed, 
that  it  almost  dislocated  his  elbow. 

"Come,  that's  not  the  gripe  of  one  who's  lived  in  idleness 
all  his  life,  however,"  said  the  landlord. 

"No,  my  honest  fellow,"  said  the  second  stranger,  who 
had  not  spoken  before;  "it  is  the  grasp  of  a  soldier  who  has 
borne  arms  in  defence  of  his  king  almost  from  infancy; 
and  under  whose  gay  and  thoughtless  exterior  is  concealed 
as  brave  and  honest  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  an  Englishman's 
bosom." 

The  sound  of  this  gentleman's  voice  evidently  startled  the 
landlord.  He  eyed  the  stranger  from  head  to  foot;  then 
muttered — "Strange  resemblance  of  voice!  but  it  can't  be. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen:"  after  a  minute's  pause,  he 
resumed — "you  were  asking  about  the  stir  in  the  village. 
The  daughter  and  only  child  of  our  worthy  landlord,  'squire 
Wilson,  is  to  be  married  to-day."  The  stranger,  whose 
voice  had  apparently  brought  back  to  the  landlord's  mind 
some  reminiscences  of  the  days  that  were  past,  now  started 


FLORA.  137 

in  his  turn,  and  exclaimed,  "Indeed!"     His  emotion,  how- 
ever, was  not  noticed  by  Boniface,  who  proceeded: — 

"She  is  the  pride  of  our  village,  sir;  so  beautiful,  so  good- 
humored,  and  so  amiable :  then,  sir,  she  is  the  idol  of  all  who 
visit  the  hall — both  young  and  old;  and  is  doted  upon  by  her 
parents." 

"Is  she  the  only  child,  did  you  say?"  inquired  the  stranger 
who  had  first  spoken. 

"We  fear  she  is,"  said  Boniface. 

"You  fear  she  is  ?     What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Why,  sir,  the  story  always  makes  me  melancholy  — 
and  this  is  not  a  day  for  melancholy  reflections ;  however, 
you  shall  have  it.  You  must  know,  sir,  that  our  'squire  had 
another  child,  a  son;  a  fine  boy  he  was,  too,  handsome,  gene- 
rous, high-spirited :  indeed,  he  was  too  high-spirited,  as  you 
shall  hear.  He  grew  up  amongst  us,  and  was  beloved  by 
old  and  young;  not  a  lad  in  the  village  but  would  have  laid 
down  his  life  to  serve  Master  Henry.  He  was  educated  at 
home,  his  father  not  approving  of  public  schools;  and  an 
orphan  cousin,  to  whom  he  always  behaved  with  the  affection 
of  a  brother,  was  brought  up  with  him.  Sirs,  this  cousin 
was  a  villain.  (The  second  stranger  here  was  greatly  agi- 
tated, and  listened  with  increased  interest.)  He  panted  to 
enjoy  the  wealth  and  distinctions  of  his  unfortunate  cousin ; 
he  envied  him  the  affection  and  respect  of  the  villagers, 
which  he  thought  was  paid  only  to  his  wealth ;  and  from 
brooding  over  the  difference  which  Providence  had  pleased  to 
make  in  their  situations,  he  formed  the  diabolical  plan,  if 
possible,  to  ruin  Henry  in  his  father's  affections  by  corrupting 
that  heart  which  was  the  seat  of  honor,  and  by  making  him 
the  child  of  vice  and  crime.  He  failed;  and  though  Henry 
detected  his  machinations,  he  generously  concealed  them 
from  his  father,  as  he  knew  how  dependent  his  cousin  was 
upon  him ;  and  having  earnestly  reasoned  with  him  on  the  na- 
ture of  his  offences,  he  trusted  that  he  had  worked  a  reforma- 

12* 


138  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

tion  in  the  depraved  mind  of  Woodbum ;  but  his  heart  was 
the  same,  and  still  panted  for  the  ruin  of  his  benefactor. 

"Well,  sirs,  this  ruin  he  effected  by  purloining  some  trink- 
ets from  the  room  of  Mrs.  Wilson,  which  he  hid  with  great 
care  in  the  bottom  of  Henry's  box;  who,  never  suspecting 
any  one  about  him  of  dishonesty,  frequently  left  his  keys 
lying  in  his  room,  and  thus  afforded  facility  to  the  execution 
of  his  treacherous  cousin's  devices.  Woodburn  then  procured 
a  girl  who  lived  in  the  family,  over  whom  he  had  obtained 
unbounded  power  by  the  basest  arts,  to  be  ready,  when  any 
inquiry  took  place,  to  come  forward  and  swear  that  she  saw 
Master  Henry  take  the  trinkets  out  of  his  mother's  room. 
What  particular  end  he  meant  this  rascally  trick  to  answer  I 
don't  know,  as  he  could  not  have  expected  that  if  even  his 
parents  became  convinced  Henry  had  clandestinely  stolen 
the  trinkets,  they  would  discard  or  disinherit  him  for  that. 
However,  unhappily,  it  fell  out  too  well  for  the  villain.  The 
things  were  missed ;  inquiry  was  made ;  the  girl  with  great 
apparent  reluctance  told  the  cursed  tale  which  had  been  put 
into  her  mouth ;  and  the  noble  and  honorable-minded  Henry 
was  charged  with  the  theft.  He  positively  denied  it.  His 
father,  who  felt  thunderstruck  at  the  imputation  cast  on  his 
son,  demanded  the  keys  of  his  box :  Henry,  indignant  at  the 
idea  of  being  suspected  of  committing  a  crime  at  which  his 
whole  soul  revolted,  refused  to  deliver  them.  His  father  took 
them  by  force,  and  going  to  his  chamber,  soon  returned  with 
the  lost  trinkets,  which  he  had  found  carefully  concealed  in  a 
corner  of  his  trunk,  under  his  clothes.  I  cannot  describe  the 
scene  which  followed,  though  I  have  often  heard  poor  old 
Harlowe,  the  butler,  describe  it;  but  it  ended  in  Henry's 
running  out  of  the  room,  declaring  that  he  would  never  stay 
to  be  suspected  of  being  a  thief.  From  that  time  to  this  he 
has  never  been  heard  of." 

"And  how  did  Mr.  Wilson  bear  up  under  the  loss  of  such 
a  son?"  inquired  the  first  stranger:  the  other  had  buried  his 


FLORA.  139 

face  in  his  hands,  and  seemed  to  be  listening  to  the  landlord's 
tale  with  the  most  intense  interest. 

"I  can  scarcely  tell  you,  sir.  After  a  little  time  he  seemed 
like  a  lost  man:  the  sight  of  the  girl  who  had  accused  Henry 
became  hateful  to  him,  and  she  was  obliged  to  leave  the 
family.  My  lady  was  delivered  of  a  daughter  soon  after ;  but 
still  the  'squire  was  anxious  to  discover  his  son :  rewards 
were  offered,  every  search  was  made,  but  all  to  no  effect ; 
and  our  respected  master  fell  quite  into  a  melancholy  way 

like." 

"Well?"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Things  went  on  so  for  two  or  three  years ;  when  one  day 
the  girl  who  had   accused  Master  Henry  came  to  my  house, 
(it  was  my  father's  then,  though)  and  after  much  crying  and 
fainting,  told  us  the  whole  story,  how  she  had  been  seduced 
by  Woodburn  to  tell  the  base  lie,  and  that  it  was  all  false. 
Nobody  in  the  village  believed  it,  sir ;  but  we  were    happy, 
nevertheless,  at  being  able  so  satisfactorily  to  contradict  it. 
Father  hurried   away  with  her  to  the  Hall,  where  she  was 
confronted  with  Woodburn,  and  told  the  same  story.    I  have 
often  heard  father  say,  what  a  hang-dog  he  looked  like  when 
the  'squire  indignantly  ordered  him  from  his  presence,  but 
told  him  that  he  should  have  a  liberal  maintenance  to  keep 
him  from  the  necessity  of  committing  crime.     This  is  now 
fifteen  years  since,  and    still   nothing  has   been   heard   of 
Master  Henry ;  yet  the  good  old   'squire,  who  shook  off  his 
melancholy  when  his  son's  innocence  was  made  apparent, 
has  always  kept  up  his  spirits.     He  says  he  is  convinced 
he  will  return ;  for  that  God  who  made  his  innocence  mani- 
fest, will  protect  him  in  his  wanderings,  and  restore  him, 
when  he  sees  fit,  to  his  family  and  friends." 
"And  Woodburn?"  said  the  stranger. 
"  Oh!  he  lives  somewhere  in  London,  I  believe:  he  is  yet 
a  pensioner  upon  the  'squire's  bounty;  but  he  never  dares 
to  show  himself  at  the  village.     But,  bless  my  soul,  gentle- 


140  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

men,  I  cannot  stand  talking  here  any  longer ;  time  flies. 
The  marriage  takes  place  at  twelve  o'clock:  it  is  now  ten, 
and  I  have  a  hundred  things  to  do.  You  shall  have  breakfast 
sent  in  directly ;  but  you  must  excuse  me.  Your  servant, 
gentlemen." 

"Your  servant,  Mr.  Boniface;  and  thanks  for  your  inte- 
resting story." 

The  landlord  left  the  room ;  and  the  two  friends,  whilst 
discussing  their  breakfast,  arranged  the  plan  of  their  future 
operations. 

The  hour  soon  arrived  which  wTas  to  behold  the  blooming 
Flora  Wilson  become  the  wife  of  Sir  George  Broomfield,  a 
young  baronet  of  large  estates  in  the  neighborhood,  and  of  a 
character  as  amiable  as  her  own.  The  party  proceeded  to 
church  through  a  line  of  villagers  formed  from  the  Hall  to  the 
sacred  edifice,  and  were  preceded  by  the  children  we  have 
mentioned,  strewing  flowers  in  their  path.  The  ceremony  was 
performed  by  the  venerable  parish  priest,  who  had  been  the 
tutor  of  Master  Henry,  and  who  had  refused  all  other  prefer- 
ment, that  he  might  remain  near  the  family  of  his  beloved 
pupil,  whom  he  never  ceased  to  regret,  and  of  whom  he  was 
never  tired  of  talking.  "When  it  was  concluded,  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  and  their  friends  returned  to  the  Hall,  whilst 
the  villagers  proceeded  to  the  village,  to  spend  the  day  in 
festive  mirth  and  in  innocent  enjoyment. 

A  splendid  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette  was  provided  at  the 
Hall  for  the  nuptial  party,  and  they  were  scarcely  seated, 
when  Mr.  Wilson  was  summoned  to  the  library  to  receive  a 
stranger  who  wished  to  see  him  on  particular  business.  On 
entering  the  room,  a  young  man  of  prepossessing  appearance 
introduced  himself  to  him  as  Captain  Lockhart,  and  apolo- 
gized for  intruding  upon  him  at  such  a  moment:  "But,  sir," 
he  continued,  "I  flatter  myself  that  when  I  have  opened  my 
commission,  the  intelligence  I  bring  will  insure  my  pardon, 
and,  I  trust,  increase  the  happiness  which  the  event  of  this 


FLORA.  141 

day  is  calculated  to  confer  upon  all  parties  connected  with 
your  amiable  family." 

"You  come  to  tell  me  of  my  son!"  tremulously  exclaimed 
the  agitated,  anxious  father:  "I  can  see  by  your  looks  that 
he  lives — God  be  praised!"  and  he  sank  upon  his  knees  to 
return  thanks  to  that  Being  who  had  granted  his  prayers,  and 
fulfilled  the  only  wish,  the  accomplishment  of  which  was  left 
unattained.  The  gallant  soldier  beheld  him  with  reverence 
and  respect;  and  when  he  rose  from  his  devotional  posture, 
assured  him  that  his  conjectures  were  correct — that  he  did 
bring  news  of  his  son,  who  lived;  nay,  who  was  in  the  vil- 
lage— in  the  house.  "In  your  arms,  my  father!"  exclaimed 
Henry  himself,  who  came  forward  from  a  recess  where  he  had 
remained  during  this  conversation,  and  threw  himself  into  the 
ready  embrace  of  his  revered  parent,  who  strained  him  to  his 
heart  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  Mr.  Wilson  had  not  closed 
the  library  door  when  he  entered :  a  servant,  who  had  lived 
in  the  family  before  the  disappearance  of  Henry,  happened 
to  be  passing  down  the  corridor,  and  heard  the  last  words. 
She  immediately  ran  in  to  the  servants,  shouting,  "Our  young 
master's  come  back,  and  is  now  in  the  library!"  From  the 
servant's  hall  it  was  an  easy  transition  to  the  breakfast  par- 
lor; and  the  party  assembled  there,  half-incredulous — hoping, 
yet  doubting — proceeded  to  the  library,  where  they  found  the 
father  and  son  still  locked  in  each  other's  embrace.  The 
scene  which  followed  mocks  description.  It  was  some  time 
before  composure  was  restored  to  any  individual  in  the  com- 
pany ;  but  at  length  they  again  adjourned  to  the  breakfast 
parlor,  where  Henry,  being  seated  between  his  father  and 
mother,  accounted  for  his  long  absence  and  apparent  neglect. 

On  leaving  the  Hall,  he  had  proceeded  to  the  neighboring 
sea-port,  and  enlisted  as  a  drummer  in  an  East  India  regi- 
ment, which  embarked  the  next  day.  He  wrote  to  Wood- 
burn  to  tell  him  of  his  movements,  before  the  vessel  sailed, 
and  to  entreat  that  he  would  take  every  opportunity  of  im- 


142  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

pressing  his  innocence  upon  his  father's  mind ;  and  promised 
to  acquaint  him  with  his  proceedings  when  he  arrived  at  the 
place  of  his  destination.  From  that  time  he  had  risen  through 
every  gradation  in  the  army,  till  he  had  reached  the  rank  of 
Lieutenant-Colonel ;  and  little  did  the  anxious  parents  think, 
when  reading  of  the  heroism  of  Colonel  Campbell,  that  this 
individual  was  their  deeply-lamented  son.  He  had  kept  up 
a  constant  correspondence  with  Woodburn,  who  always  re- 
presented his  father  as  implacable  against  him  ;  and  assured 
him  that  he  had  invariably  refused  to  read  the  letters  which 
Henry  forwarded  to  him  through  his  treacherous  cousin. 
These  letters  Woodburn  had  destroyed,  and  thus  perpetuated 
the  estrangement  he  had  first  created.  The  peace  of  1815 
was  the  signal  for  the  recall  of  Henry's  regiment  to  England ; 
and,  unable  any  longer  to  bear  the  anger  of  his  beloved  pa- 
rent, he  resolved  to  seek  his  native  village,  and  try  the  effects 
of  a  personal  interview.  There  he  arrived,  accompanied  by 
his  friend  Captain  Lockhart,  on  the  morning  of  the  day  fixed 
for  his  sister's  marriage ;  and  from  the  garrulity  of  Boniface 
he  learned  his  cousin's  treachery,  and  received  the  conviction 
of  his  parent's  love.  He  determined  not  to  make  himself 
known  till  after  the  ceremony;  and,  having  witnessed  its 
celebration  from  the  reading  desk  of  the  church,  he  and  his 
friend  took  the  road  to  the  Hall.  In  the  hurry  and  joyous 
confusion  which  prevailed,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  reaching 
the  library  unobserved,  whither,  as  he  expected,  Captain 
Lockhart,  on  inquiring  for  Mr.  Wilson,  was  conducted,  when 
the  happy  explanation  took  place. 

The  news  of  "Master  Harry's  return"  was  soon  carried 
to  the  village,  where  it  spread  like  wildfire,  and  occasioned 
universal  joy.  Boniface  capered  and  sung  like  a  madman ; 
he  told  the  villagers  they  were  welcome  to  drain  every  drop 
of  ale  in  his  cellar  to  the  health  of  their  young  'squire ;  and 
he  caught  Bessy  the  bar-maid,  and  gave  her  such  a  hearty 
kiss,  that  the  reverberation  of  it  echoed  through  the  house. 


hope.  143 

"Never  mind,  my  girl,"  said  he;  "thee  and  me  will  be  mar- 
ried to-morrow ;  and  as  long  as  we  live  we  will  keep  this 
day  as  a  jubilee,  and  never  forget  to  celebrate  our  young- 
master's  return." 

We  need  not  add  that  the  good  news  gave  an  additional 
zest  to  the  sports  of  the  day.  In  the  evening,  all  the  party 
at  the  Hall  joined  the  villagers,  and  partook  of  the  merry 
dance  with  their  happy  dependents.  The  morning  sun  rose 
before  they  had  retired  to  their  beds;  and,  in  every  succeed- 
ing year,  this  day  has  been  celebrated  as  a  festival  at  the 
village  of  H . 


HOPE 


BT  NICHOLAS  MICHELt,  ESQ.- 


'Tis  dead  of  night :  thick  clouds  obscure  the  sky : 
Loud  roar  the  winds  across  the  wintry  plain ; 
Against  the  mountain  beats  the  dashing  rain ; 

Woe  to  the  traveler  if  no  cot  be  nigh! — 

Now  gaze  above! — lo!  through  the  opening  gloom, 
That  like  a  funeral  pall  o'er  nature  spreads, 
A  little  star  its  trembling  lustre  sheds; 

It  seems  a  lamp  dim-burning  in  a  tomb ; 

It  silvers  o'er  the  haggard  brow  of  night, 

With  watery  beam  illumes  the  howling  wood, 
And  chases  horror  from  the  dashing  flood. — 

Thus,  mid  life's  gloomiest  scenes,  Hope  sheds  her  light, 
Let  ills  surround  us,  or  let  cares  oppress, 
Still  she  appears,  and  points  to  happiness. 


THE  LIFE  OF  A  HERO 


BT  MRS.  BOWDICH. 


"I  ought  to  have  christened  that  boy  Alexander,  instead 
of  Philip,  for  he  is  a  regular  hero,"  said  a  half-pay  officer 
to  his  wife,  as  he  watched  the  gambols  of  their  youngest  son. 

"He  will  break  his  neck  with  his  heroism,"  replied  the 
lady. 

"No,  no,"  returned  the  husband  ;  "he  was  born  to  be  a 
great  man,  I  am  convinced." 

This  dialogue  was  carried  on  in  the  jasmine  porch  of  a 
low,  gothic-looking  cottage,  in  the  village  of  H.  Its  thatched 
roof  and  white  chimneys;  the  luxuriant  roses  and  clematis, 
which  covered  the  green  lattice- work  over  the  walls;  the 
ample  garden,  containing  some  noble  trees  ;  all  bespoke  an 
humble,  yet  peaceful  degree  of  affluence.  A  navigable 
river  wound  its  serpentine  course  in  front,  and  beyond  that 
was  a  large  meadow,  where  traces  of  a  battle  fought  between 
the  Danes  and  the  Saxons  still  existed.  It  was  in  this  mea- 
dow that  Philip  was  at  play  with  his  companions,  and  out- 
stripping them  in  every  boyish  exercise.  They  tried  to  chase 
the  horses  which  were  grazing  near  them,  but  while  the  rest 
were  engaged  in  vain  pursuit,  Philip  jumped  on  the  back  of 
one  going  at  full  speed,  and,  twisting  his  hand  in  the  mane, 
darted  away  like  an  Arab.  Frequently,  when  his  playfellows 
were  hunting  him  as  a  stag,  and  he  seemed  hemmed  in  on 
all  sides,  had  he  suddenly  plunged  into  the  river,  and,  diving 


THE    LIFE    OF    A    HERO.  145 

under  the  passing  barges,  risen  again  upon  the  opposite  bank, 
to  deride  his  pursuers,  who  had  not  dared  to  follow  him.    At 
this  time  he  was  twelve  years  of  age,  tall,  and  well-propor- 
tioned :  his  muscles,  strengthened  by  constant  exercise,  ena- 
bled him  to  excel  in   riding,  running,  swimming,  jumping, 
&c. :    his  steady,   blue   eye,  occasionally  shadowed  by  the 
curly  locks  of  his  chestnut  hair,  made  him  an  excellent  marks- 
man ;  and  the  stroke  of  his  broad  fist  was  the  terror  of  many 
an  older  and  bigger  boy  than  himself.     He  was  dearly  loved 
for  his  courage  and  good  nature  by  the  whole  neighborhood ; 
and  he  might  be  compared  to  a  Newfoundland  dog,  possess- 
ing  all  the   power  for  destruction,   and    a  disposition  that 
prompted  only  deeds  of  fun  and  mercy.     One  thing  above 
all  others  seemed  to  rouse  his  anger,  and  that  was  oppression 
in  every  shape ;  and  he  was  the  champion  of  the  distressed. 
No  surly  farmer  put  the  poor,  solitary  beast  of  a  cottager  into 
the  pound,  but  Philip  released  it  before  morning.    Complaint 
was  useless :  for  so  surely  as  it  was  made,  so  surely  did  the 
farmer  find  one  of  his  own  in  the  same  situation.     His  edu- 
cation had  been  confined  to  the  instructions  of  the  clergyman 
of  the  parish:  it  had  not  been  extensive,  but  it  had  been 
solid.     His  father,  with  the  discipline  of  an  old  soldier,  had 
early  taught  him  and  all  his  household  to  obey ;  and  his  mo- 
ther,  although    she    frequently  trembled    for    his   life,   and 
mourned  over  his  torn  and  dripping  clothes,  dared  not  check 
him,  and  loved  him  too  well  to  utter  more  than  a  gentle  re- 
monstrance when  she  feared  for  his  safety. 

Philip's  first  real  sorrow  was  that  of  parting  with  his  bro- 
ther; and  eagerly  did  he  ask  to  accompany  him.  "You  are 
not  old  enough,"  replied  his  father.  "I  have  from  length  of 
service,  obtained  a  commission  for  John,  and  cannot  hope  to 
do  the  same  for  you:  to  purchase  one  you  know  is  out  of  the 
question." 

"I  will  serve  as  a  volunteer,"  exclaimed  Philip. 
13 


146  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

"And  who  is  to  support  you  as  such,  my  son?"  was  the 
answer. 

Philip  said  no  more,  but  from  that  day  became  more 
thoughtful.  His  questions  concerning  the  battle  fought  in  his 
favorite  meadow,  the  broken  helmets  and  weapons  dug  up  in 
it,  all  served  but  to  heighten  his  desire  for  action ;  and  he 
spent  many  hours  of  the  next  two  years  of  his  life  in  con- 
triving to  emancipate  himself  from  his  narrow  sphere.  At 
this  time  his  father  received  a  letter  from  an  old  friend,  who 
wrote,  "I  find  you  have  made  a  soldier  of  your  eldest  son: 
what  say  you  to  making  a  sailor  of  your  youngest?  Send 
him  to  me,  and  I  will  get  him  out  as  a  midshipman."  Philip 
had  no  great  desire  to  be  a  sailor,  but  to  enter  his  career  was 
everything  ;  and  the  pang  of  parting  with  all  he  held  dear 
was  no  sooner  abated,  than  his  whole  soul  expanded  with  the 
hope  of  realizing  his  father's  predictions  of  becoming  a 
hero.  He  arrived  at  his  friend's  house  in  London ;  his  outfit 
was  got  ready:  but  great  was  his  consternation  at  finding 
that  the  buttons  on  his  jacket  were  those  of  the  East  India 
Company,  instead  of  the  Royal  Navy.  He,  however,  bore 
his  disappointment  like  a  hero,  and  thus  wrote  to  his  father: 
"If  I  cannot  render  myself  famous  by  fighting  the  French, 
a  life  at  sea  must  always  demand  courage  and  attention,  and 
I  trust  I  shall  not  be  unworthy  of  your  hopes,  even  in  this 
situation."  To  the  East  Indies  Philip  went  and  returned; 
and  the  report  made  of  his  excellent  conduct  induced  the 
Company  to  re-appoint    him   immediately.     Barely  had  he 

time  to  fly  to  H ,  to  close  the  eyes  of  his  gentle  mother; 

but  to  have  been  present  on  this  sad  occasion  was  a  source 
of  consolation,  and  he  said  to  his  father,  as  he  jumped  into 
the  coach  which  was  to  take  him  to  town — "All  is  for  the 
best,  my  dear  sir.  Had  I  been  either  in  the  army  or  navy, 
the  melancholy  happiness  of  receiving  my  mother's  dying 
blessing  might  have  been  denied  me,  from  the  impossibility 
of  quitting  my  post.     Another  eighteen  months,  and  I  shall 


THE    LIFE    OF    A    HERO.  147 

again  see  you  and  my  sister."  His  second  voyage  afforded 
him  more  opportunity  of  displaying  his  courage ;  for  the  fleet 
was  attacked  by  a  French  squadron  ;  and  as  each  Indiaman 
at  that  time  carried  guns,  to  Philip's  great  delight  his  vessel 
was  called  into  the  hottest  part  of  the  action,  and  his  ready 
bravery  and  presence  of  mind  distinguished  him  above  all 
his  companions.  Beloved  by  the  sailors,  they  obeyed  his 
orders  with  alacrity;  and,  intrusted  by  his  captain  with  a 
post  of  importance,  he  had  an  opportunity  of  displaying  that 
energy,  which  in  a  trading  vessel  was  seldom  called  forth. 
Foremost  in  the  action,  he  was  the  first,  when  all  was  over, 
to  fly  down  to  the  trembling  female  passengers,  and  assure 
them  of  their  safety.  His  conduct  was  a  step  to  rapid  ad- 
vancement ;  his  father's  eyes  sparkled  with  triumph  as  he 
said  to  the  clergyman — "I  told  you  the  boy  was  a  hero;" 
and  Philip  sailed  the  next  time  as  third  officer.  He  con- 
tinued in  this  station  for  a  few  years ;  but  between  every 
voyage  paid  a  visit  to  his  family.  During  one  of  these  short 
sojourns  at  home,  he  chose  to  fall  in  love  with  a  pretty,  lively 
friend  of  his  sister's.  The  dancing  black -eyes  of  the  ani- 
mated Bertha,  to  use  his  own  terms,  "  soon  answered  his  blue 
signals;"  and  seeing  only  success  in  the  future,  the  light- 
hearted  couple  swore  fidelity,  till  Philip's  gains  should  enable 
them  to  confirm  their  vows  at  the  altar. 

Again  he  sailed,  and  again  entered  the  Downs.  He  wrote 
to  his  father,  that  the  moment  his  vessel  was  cleared  he 
should  be  with  him.  His  next  letter  bore  a  very  different 
date,  for  it  was  written  within  the  walls  of  Newgate.  One 
morning,  at  break  of  day,  before  he  had  left  his  hammock, 
he  was  seized  by  officers  of  justice,  who,  seeing  him  so  strong 
and  powerful,  heavily  ironed  him,  and  told  him  he  was  a 
prisoner  on  the  charge  of  murder.  The  conduct  of  these 
men,  however  brutal  at  first,  was  soon  altered  by  his  calm 
and  gentle  submission  to  their  orders.  "It  is  useless,"  he 
said,  "to  assert  my  innocence  to  you,  but  I  hope  you  will 


148  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

allow  me  to  secure  those  things  which  will  afford  me  some 
comfort  in  the  dreary  abode  to  which  you  are  about  to  lead 
me."  They  readily  complied;  and  after  putting  his  seal  on 
all  his  property,  and  packing  up  his  Bible,  money  and  clothes, 
he  quietly  followed  them  to  the  carriage  which  conveyed  them 
to  London. 

In  going  out  to  India,  an  inferior  officer  of  the  ship,  named 
Caylis,  had  repeatedly  behaved  with  great  insolence  to  all 
around  him,  especially  to  Philip,  whose  superiority  had  ex- 
cited his  envy.     One  day,  when  provoked  almost  beyond 
bearing,  Philip  observed  to  him — "For  your  public  conduct 
there  are  plenty  of  punishments  provided  by  the  rules  of  the 
service;  but  for  your  conduct  to  me,  as  an  individual,  if  you 
persist,  I  shall  take  the  punishment  into  my  own  hands: 
therefore  beware."     He  walked  away;  but  the  coward  fol- 
lowed, and,  hitting  him  a  violent  blow,  tried  to  escape  to  the 
forepart  of  the  vessel.     Philip,  however,  was  too  quick  for 
him,  and,  turning  round,  laid  him  sprawling  on  the  deck. 
The  whole  transaction  having  been  witnessed  by  the  captain, 
he  now  interfered,  and  ordered  the  offender  to  be  severely 
punished.     He  was  awed  into  obedience;  the  circumstance 
passed  over  and  was  forgotten  by  all  but  the  wretch  Caylis, 
who  vowed  eternal  revenge  against  Philip.     In  the  course  of 
the  voyage  home,  a  man  was  ordered  into  the  shrouds  for 
some  misdemeanor;  he  dared  to  come  down  before  his  time 
expired,  and  during  Philip's  watch,  who  sternly  ordered  him 
back  again.     The  culprit  obeyed,  and  a  few  minutes  after 
was  heard  to  fall  into  the  water,  whence,  although  every  effort 
was  made  to  save  him,  he  never  rose  again.    On  this  did  the 
malignant  Caylis  found  his  charge   against  Philip,  and  de- 
clare that  he  had  pushed  the   man  overboard  for  disobeying 
orders.     As  villains  may  always  be  found   in   every  large 
community,  bribes  induced   some  of  the  sailors  to  bear  out 
the  assertion.     Philip  had  no  time  to  assemble  his  own  wit- 
nesses, was  examined  and  committed.     It  was  then  that  he 


THE    LIFE    OF    A    HERO.  149 

wrote  to  his  father  an  account  of  the  whole  transaction,  and 
begged  him  to  communicate  it  to  his  friends.     For  a  mo- 
ment the  poor  old  man  was  overcome.     "My  boy,  my  hero, 
to  die  such  a  death!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  hid  his  face  in 
his  hands.     "Impossible!"  he  resumed,  as  he  started  up  to 
prepare  for    his  journey.     The  news  soon  spread,  and  the 
whole  county  was  set  in  commotion :  men  of  the  highest  rank 
and  wealth  offered  immense  sums  for  his  bail;  no  bail  could 
be  allowed  for  murder,  and  he  stood  his  trial.     Two  hearts 
above  all  others,  longed  to  be  with  him  in  this  hour  of  afflic- 
tion— those  of  Bertha  and  his  sister.    Their  fathers,  however, 
forbade  their  presence,  by  saying,  "A  prison  is  no  place  for 
females,    and  if  Philip  were  condemned,  you   could  do  no 
more."     No  prisoner  ever  went  to  the  bar  more  numerously 
escorted ;  his  father,  with  his  erect  and  military  air,  seemed 
proudly  to  defy  the  accusers  of  his  son.     His  venerable  in- 
structor followed,  with  his  silver  hair  and  benignant  counte- 
nance; the  respectable  father  of  his  betrothed,  and  a  nume- 
rous assemblage  of  men  of  rank  and  consequence,  attended 
him  to  court.     Never  did  a  prisoner  appear  as  a  capital  of- 
fender, who  in  his  own  person  excited  such  interest.     His 
manly  figure,  his  fine  elevated  forehead,  which  seemed  to  be 
the  seat  of  candor  and  intelligence,  the  serene  expression  of 
his   handsome   features,  betokened  perfect  innocence,  and 
when  he  pronounced  the  words  "Not  Guilty"  with  a  clear 
and  steady  voice,  a  murmur  of  assent  ran  through  the  crowd. 
His  captain,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  crew,  most  of  whom 
had  volunteered  their  testimony,  the  hesitation  of  some  of  the 
suborned  witnesses,  all  confirmed  the  favorable  impression, 
and   after  thorough  investigation,  the  jury  pronounced  him 
innocent  without  quitting  their  box.     "Acquitted,  most  ho- 
norably acquitted,"  wrere  the  words  of  the  judge.     A  shout 
of  joy  and  applause  filled  the  whole  court.    His  father,  whose 
proud  bearing  was  but  the  mask  of  intense  feeling,  was  car- 
ried insensible  into  the  air,  where,  however,  he  soon  revived ; 

13* 


150  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

trfe  old  clergyman  silently  and  fervently  returned  thanks  to  a 
higher  tribunal,  and  Philip  had  neither  words  nor  hands 
enough  to  return  the  salutations  and  congratulations  which 
were  showered  upon  him  by  friends  and  strangers.  A  dinner 
was  given  on  the  same  day  to  celebrate  the  event,  but  which 
Philip  left  his  friends  to  enjoy  by  themselves.  Bertha  and 
his  sister  had  not  been  separated  since  the  departure  of  their 
parents:  communications  were  regularly  made  to  them,  but, 
notwithstanding  their  conviction  that  Philip  would  be  acquit- 
ted, this  awful  day  had  been  passed  by  them  in  speechless 
suspense.  Every  moment  brought  on  the  crisis — the  period 
was  past — his  fate  was  decided — Oh !  when  should  they 
know  ? — With  violent  efforts  they  assumed  a  patience  which 
they  felt  not — hour  after  hour  passed,  and  at  length  Mary 

ventured  to   whisper    "How    soon    may   we    expect " 

"Hark!"  said  Bertha.  A  faint  noise  was  heard — it  gradually 
increased — a  chaise  and  four  horses  whirled  up  to  the  cottage- 
gate,  and  they  were  encircled  in  the  arms  of  their  beloved 
Philip. 

This  event  gave  him  a  feeling  of  disgust  to  his  profession 
which  he  could  not  conquer,  and,  aided  by  the  idea  of  its 
not  being  sufficiently  lucrative  to  allow  of  his  marriage  in  a 
reasonable  time,  he  determined  upon  leaving  the  service. 
His  brother  was  in  India,  attached  to  the  —  dragoons,  with 
the  rank  of  major,  and  as  they  were  raising  recruits  for  this 
regiment,  he  entered  it  as  cornet.  The  time  of  departure 
arrived,  and,  at  his  father's  request,  he,  in  his  farewell  visit, 
appeared  in  his  dragoon  uniform.  The  good  man  thought  he 
might  be  a  hero  after  all,  when  he  saw  him  in  the  respected 
paraphernalia  of  his  own  profession,  and  Bertha,  although  she 
would  not  confess  it,  thought  him  handsomer  than  ever.  The 
campaign  in  India  was  to  fill  his  purse,  and,  with  the  hope 
of  this  being  their  last  separation,  she  parted  from  him  with 
more  resignation  than  usual.  Philip  in  due  time  announced 
his  safe  arrival,  and,  early  called  into  action,  from  that  period 


THE    LIFE    OF    A    HERO.  151 

no  letters  were  received  from  him.  Age  was  fast  creeping 
upon  his  excellent  father;  his  constitution  was  evidently 
much  broken ;  yet  he  still  continued,  with  the  aid  of  specta- 
cles, to  examine  the  daily  papers  for  news  of  his  children. 
The  gazette  soon  announced  the  promotion  of  the  elder  to 
the  rank  of  lieutenant-colonel,  and  of  the  younger  to  that  of 
lieutenant ;  frequently  were  they  both  spoken  of  in  the  most 
gratifying  terms,  and  at  length  the  bravery  of  the  dauntless 
Philip,  who  was  described  as  recovering  the  colors  of  his 
regiment  from  the  enemy,  almost  by  a  miracle,  shot  a  ray  of 
joy  into  his  heart  which  was  too  strong  for  the  enfeebled 
frame  that  enclosed  it.  The  anecdote  was  told  in  the  most 
glowing  terms,  the  commanding  officer's  praises  were  repeat- 
ed, and  as  Mary  concluded  the  paragraph  which  her  father's 
emotion  had  prevented  him  from  finishing,  he  sunk  back  into 
his  chair,  with  clasped  hands  and  eyes  raised  to  Heaven. 

"Thank  God!"  he  fervently  exclaimed,  "my  boy  is  a 
hero! — I  foretold  it :  and  now,  bless  you  all,  my — "  The  last 
words  faltered  on  his  lips ;  a  deep-drawn  sigh  escaped  from 
his  bosom — and  it  was  his  last. 

The  news  of  his  death  reached  Philip  at  a  time  when  he 
had  no  leisure  for  the  indulgence  of  his  private  feelings. 
The  siege  of  Seringapatam  was  begun ;  every  energy  was 
called  into  the  combat ;  the  —  dragoons  acted  as  dismounted 
cavalry:  but  as  Philip  stood,  with  his  men,  up  to  his  knees 
in  an  intrenchment  filled  with  water,  and  the  tropical  sun 
flamed  over  his  head,  he  darted  a  thought  of  regret  back  to 
his  home,  and  uttered  a  short  prayer  for  the  survivors.  The 
city  fell  and  became  the  spoil  of  the  conquerors.  Already 
did  Philip  think  his  wishes  were  accomplished ;  honor  and 
fortune  awaited  him  ;  and  Bertha  was  to  crown  his  happiness. 
But  the  chastening  hand  of  Providence  had  ordered  it  other- 
wise. His  exposure  to  the  sun;  his  violent  exertions;  the 
smoke,  heat,  and  dust  of  the  siege,  brought  on  an  inflamma- 
tion in  his  eyes,  which  at  length  ended  in  blindness.     Still 


152  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

he  hoped  that  the  calamity  was  only  temporary.  The  skill 
of  English  practitioners  he  thought  would  restore  him.  He 
asked  leave  of  absence,  and  it  was  granted.  He  received 
his  share  of  the  spoils,  and  returned  home  with  a  wounded 
brother  officer,  taking  with  him  his  favorite  charger.  They 
traveled  through  a  wild  country  to  reach  the  sea-coast,  and 
frequently  suffered  from  hunger.  The  inhabitants  fled  before 
them ;  and  often  had  Philip  given  up  his  own  meal  to  supply 
the  appetite  of  his  valued  steed.  On  one  of  these  occasions 
the  rice  he  abandoned  to  it  was  poisoned,  and  the  poor  animal 
died  in  a  few  hours.  Philip  could  scarcely  feel  grateful  for 
his  own  escape,  when  he  first  heard  the  intelligence ;  but, 
continuing  his  route  on  another  horse,  he  arrived  at  the  port 
without  further  disaster,  and  finally  landed  in  England.  He 
staid  in  London  for  some  time,  trying  the  best  operators  and 
advisers;  they  at  length  told  him  that  there  was  not  the 

slightest  hope ;  and  sadly  did  he  return  to  H ,  without 

the  power  of  beholding  the  dear  forms  which  he  had  often 
contemplated  with  delight.  He  had  thought  that  Mary  or 
Bertha  might  have  met  him  in  town,  to  afford  him  consola- 
tion under  his  heavy  trial:  but  Mary  was  married,  and  a 
mother;  and  Bertha's  parents  had  forbidden  her  to  see  her 
lover.  The  agents  in  India  intrusted  with  the  division  of  the 
prize-money  had  taken  advantage  of  his  blindness,  and  given 
him  glass  for  precious  stones ;  he  was  obliged  to  retire  upon 
half-pay ;  and  a  comparatively  trifling  pension  was  granted 
for  his  loss  of  sight.  He  was  no  longer,  then,  a  match  for 
their  daughter,  and  they  peremptorily  ordered  her  to  give  him 
up. 

"No!"  exclaimed  the  heart-broken  girl,  "I  may  not  marry 
him  in  disobedience  to  your  commands;  but  he  is  the  same 
Philip  whom  you  once  sanctioned  as  my  affianced  husband, 
and  I  never  will  give  him  up." 

Time  rolled  on.  Philip  was  established,  with  a  servant, 
in  lodgings  near  his  sister;  and  his  stolen  interviews  with 


THE    LIFE    OF    A    HERO.  153 

Bertha  at  her  house,  and  the  society  of  her  children,  were 
his  sole  comforts.  Bertha's  father  died,  and  left  thousands 
among  his  wife  and  sons ;  but  to  Bertha  he  bequeathed  a 
paltry  pittance,  and  the  reversion  of  her  mother's  jointure, 
in  case  she  married  with  her  consent.  Resigned  as  he  was 
to  his  fate,  his  health  suffered  from  his  struggles  and  the  in- 
action of  his  life.  The  people,  as  he  passed  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  a  servant,  would  shake  their  heads,  and  mourn  over  the 
alteration,  thinking  it  a  blessing  that  "  his  father  had  not  lived 
to  see  what  his  hero  was  come  to."  Could  they  have  searched 
into  his  heart,  they  would  have  found  him  a  greater  hero  than 
ever.  His  entire  resignation  to  the  will  of  God,  his  endea- 
vors to  extract  happiness  from  every  trifling  occurrence,  his 
cheerful  conversation,  were  proofs  of  a  strength  that  availed 
much  more  than  bodily  exertion.  At  length,  after  the  lapse 
of  years,  Bertha's  grandmother  died,  and  left  her  a  small 
property;  she  wrung  a  consent  from  her  mother;  and  she 
became  the  wife  of  Philip.  Then,  indeed,  did  a  ray  of  hap- 
piness beam,  for  a  few  years,  over  his  benighted  existence. 
Her  society,  her  devotion  to  his  wishes,  made  him  declare  that 
he  had  nothing  on  earth  to  desire ;  and  when  he  felt  that  he 
must  prepare  for  heaven,  he  proved  that  he  was  still  a  hero. 
Feeling  that  he  must  die,  he  uttered  his  last  wishes  with  the 
most  perfect  calmness  and  composure ;  and,  laying  his  head 
upon  the  arm  of  his  wife,  he  resigned  his  magnanimous  soul 
to  its  Creator. 

Such  was  the  career  of  the  man  "born  to  be  a  hero;"  and 
so  were  his  father's  predictions  fulfilled. — And  let  us  learn, 
from  this  slight  sketch,  that  there  is  more  true  heroism  in 
cheerfully  submitting  to  the  privations  imposed  on  us  by  an 
unerring  Power,  than  in  mounting  the  breach  of  a  fortress 
upon  the  dead  bodies  of  our  fellow-creatures. 


THE  FLOWER  GIRL  OF  SAVOY. 


Fair  ladies  all,  who  love  to  hear 

Of  knights  sublime,  and  dragons  drear; 

Of  caves,  where  necromancers  sleep  ; 

Of  bowers,  where  sylphs  and  genii  peep ; 

Of  kingdoms  won  by  woman's  eyes ; 

Of  all  the  miracles  of  sighs ; 

Of  palfreys,  plumes,  and  lances  bent 

By  monarchs  in  the  tournament; 

Of  banquets  gay,  and  dungeons  barr'd, 

Where  lies  the  lover,  evil-starr'd, 

From  five  to  fifty  tedious  years, 

Till,  brought  to  trial  by  his  peers, 

And,  all  the  tyrant's  charges  parried, 

They  pass  his  sentence — to  be  married! 

Alas!  such  strains  are  too  divine 

For  this  dull  age  of  me  and  mine! 

Alas,  the  time!  the  minstrel's  lays 
Are  in  the  grave  of  other  days! 
No  more  the  gay  Provencal  string 
Makes  roofs  of  royal  chambers  ring; 
No  more  beneath  the  midnight  skies 
Are  sonnets  sung  to  killing  eyes; 
Nor  knights,  in  glittering  harness  arm'd, 
Sing  songs,  catch  agues,  and  are  charm'd; 


THE    FLOWER    GIRL    OF    SAVOY.  155 

Nor  ladies  fair  from  galleries  peep, 
Scorning  to  eat,  or  drink,  or  sleep, 
Till,  thanks  to  the  propitious  stars, 
They  follow  to  the  Turkish  wars. 

Sweet  sex !  whom  I  but  live  to  please, 
For  you  I  have  no  themes  like  these; 
I  offer  but  a  village  tale, 
To  tell  how  truth  and  love  prevail ; 
How  more  than  proud  the  heart  may  be 
That  never  left  her  greenwood  tree ; 
What  wealth  the  bosom  may  disclose, 
Whose  richest  jewel  is  a  rose. 

'Twas  eve:  the  fragrant  breezes  fann'd, 
Lake  Leman,  thy  delicious  strand ; 
The  sun  on  Jura's  mountain-throne 
Threw  round  the  land  a  fiery  zone ; 
A  thousand  tints  of  glory  dyed, 
Mont  Blanc,  thy  snowy-mantled  side; 
And,  purpling  in  the  sunset  glow, 
Lay  the  broad  lake,  a  heaven  below, 
With  every  cloud  and  every  beam 
In  beauty  pictured,  gleam  for  gleam — 
The  matchless  emblem  of  that  rest 
Which  reigns  in  woman's  maiden  breast, 
Before  the  heart's  wild  feelings  rise 
To  dim  her  spirit's  summer  skies. 

Along  the  mountain's  primrose  side 
A  village  girl  is  seen  to  glide; 
Now  lifting  up  her  deep  blue  eye, 
As  if  she  long'd  to  wing  that  sky ; 
Now  grazing  where  the  sun's  broad  limb 
Seems  on  the  shadowy  lake  to  swim; 


156  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

Now  plunging  in  the  valley  bower, 
Herself  the  landscape's  sweetest  flower; 
To  catch  within  her  silken  net 
The  butterfly,  all  dewy  wet, 
Then  crop  the  rose  and  myrtle's  bloom, 
Unmindful  of  the  deepening  gloom, 
Till  the  last  gleam  of  dying  day 
In  twilight  purple  fades  away. 

Yet  more  than  twilight  bathes  the  hill ; 
A  cloud  has  gather'd  stern  and  still, 
And  from  its  depths  a  sudden  spark 
Darts  out,  then  leaves  it  doubly  dark : 
The  maiden's  eyes  in  terror  gaze, 
As.  round  her  springs  the  yellow  blaze. 
And  now  the  thunders  roar  above ; 
Down  to  its  roots  is  bow'd  the  grove ; 
The  lake  is  ridged  with  sudden  foam ; 
The  tempest  in  its  wrath  has  come. 

But  deeper  fears  her  spirit  shake, 
As  on  the  bosom  of  the  lake 
She  sees,  like  dust  before  the  gale, 
A  struggling  bark,  a  shatter'd  sail : 
Onward  it  whirls ;  in  vain — in  vain 
It  toils  the  little  port  to  gain : 
In  vain  the  maiden's  generous  soul 
Now  braves  the  blast,  the  thunder-roll; 
Calls  through  the  storm;  from  height  to  height 
Bounds,  with  the  speed  of  fairy  flight ; 
Points  wildly  to  the  Mountain  bay ; 
The  sullen  storm  will  have  its  prey: 
Down  bursts  the  whirlwind's  tenfold  roar — 
One  shriek  is  heard — and  all  is  o'er! 


THE    FLOWER    GIRL    OF    SAVOY.  157 

Wet,  weary,  dash'd  with  spray  and  foam, 
Why  seeks  she  not  her  cottage-home? 
WThy  pauses  on  the  shore  her  tread? 
What  draws  she  from  the  surge? — the  dead! 
The  dead! — Ah!  many  a  bitter  tear 
Were  spared  thee,  Julie,  if  it  were! 

A  month  has  fled ;  'tis  lovely  night, 
The  stars  are  burning  broad  and  bright ; 
There  is  no  murmur  on  the  lake, 
The  birds  are  hush'd  in  bower  and  brake. 
But  whose  the  whispers  stealing  sweet, 
And  whose  the  lightly  treading  feet, 
And  whose  the  quick,  heart-breathing  sighs 
That  on  the  garden's  echoes  rise? 
Ah,  Julie,  'twas  a  dangerous  hour 
Which  brought  that  stranger  to  thy  bower! 
Ah,  Julie,  well  for  thee  the  wave 
Had  been  the  stranger's  early  grave! 
Yet  innocence  is  sword  and  shield, 
The  noble  heart  is  triple-steel'd. 
In  vain  love's  eloquence  is  tried 
To  win  thee  from  the  parent  side : 
The  tempter  feels  his  cause  undone, 
Raves,  threatens,  sues,  is  scorn'd,  and  gone ! 

Another  month;  the  air  was  balm, 
The  lake  in  morning  glory  swam ; 
But  there  was  woe  in  Julie's  eye, 
And  woe  had  blanch'd  her  rosy  dye, 
And  on  her  snowy  brow  was  laid 
The  anguish  of  a  heart  betray'd : 
And  like  a  shape  of  sculptured  stone 
She  sat  in  beauty,  sad  and  lone. 
14 


158  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

But  why  shall  I  the  anguish  tell 
With  which  the  spirit  says  "Farewell?" 
Why  tell  the  thousand  secret  stings 
When  truant  Love  has  waved  his  wings? 
The  arrow  through  the  heart  is  gone, 
Yet  still  the  world  rolls  smoothly  on. 
Nor  shall  I  tell  how  oft  she  sought 
The  meeting  and  the  parting  spot; 
How  oft,  beside  the  valley-stream, 
She  dream'd  love's  sweet  and  bitter  dream; 
How  oft,  as  evening  sank  to  rest, 
Her  foot  the  lake's  green  margin  prest; 
How  oft,  awake  before  the  sun, 
She  sat  upon  the  mountain-throne, 
And  fix'd  her  melancholy  eye 
Upon  her  wanderer's  distant  sky. 

But  what  along  the  mountain's  side 
Seems  rolling  like  a  golden  tide  ? 
Down  through  the  heathflower's  purple  blooms, 
Move  tissued  flags  and  waving  plumes, 
And  many  a  touch  of  harmony 
Proclaims  a  stately  pageant  nigh : 
But,  Julie,  thine  impassion'd  glance 
Saw  not  the  pomp,  the  charger's  prance, 
Heard  not  the  trumpet's  echo  borne 
Along  the  living  winds  of  morn! 
For  one  is  kneeling  at  thy  feet, 
With  lips  where  pride  and  passion  meet ; 
With  lips  where  passion  masters  pride — 
What  noble  wooes  thee  for  his  bride? — 
The  stranger,  whom  thy  pity  saved, 
The  stranger,  whom  thy  virtue  braved. 
And  did  his  penitence  prevail? 
Pray  you,  sweet  maidens,  end  my  tale ! 


THE  CASTLE  OF  ST.  MICHAEL. 

A     TALE. 


BY  WILLIAM  KENNEDY. 


I. 

My  family,  by  the  paternal  side,  was  originally  of  Berne, 
in  Switzerland,  whence  a  branch  of  it  removed  to  the  Milan- 
ese, to  improve  its  fortunes.  The  name  of  Reding  —  well 
known  in  the  Cantons— was  sustained  with  credit  by  my 
father.  He  inherited  a  thriving  mill  and  farm,  about  a 
quarter  of  a  league  from  the  straggling  village  and  venerable 
castle  of  St.  Michael,  within  sight  of  the  Tyrolese  Alps. 
Traveling  to  Zurich,  where  he  had  distant  connections,  he 
returned  with  a  companion  who  weaned  him  from  the  desire 
of  wandering  any  more.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  pious 
pastor  on  the  borders  of  the  lake.  From  him  she  derived 
a  dower  of  upright  principles  and  solid  acquirements,  which 
it  was  her  dearest  wish  to  transmit  with  interest  to  her  chil- 
dren, all  of  whom  died  early,  except  my  sister  and  myself. 

The  Castle  of  St.  Michael,  with  the  estate  on  which  our 
little  property  was  situated,  belonged  to  an  Austrian  noble, 
who  managed  it  by  deputy,  and  lived  in  courtly  splendor  at 
Vienna.  Count  Mansfeldt  was  equitably  represented  by  his 
steward,  Engel;  and  under  him,  our  house  enjoyed  prosperity 
from  the  days  of  my  grandsire. 

We  were  the  only  persons  in  the  place  who  professed  the 


160  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

Protestant  faith.  My  father's  temperate  conduct  gained  him 
the  unrestrained  indulgence  of  his  opinions.  The  dread  of 
proselytism  did  not  preclude  my  entrance  into  a  Catholic 
school.  The  teacher,  a  liberal  Piedmontoise,  was  a  lover  of 
learning,  and  separated  austerity  from  instruction.  He  ob- 
served, and  gratified,  my  partiality  for  history  and  the  classics, 
and  thus  unconsciously  assisted  in  the  formation  of  my  future 
character. 

My  mother  was  the  sole  superintendent  of  my  sister's 
education ;  she  thought  the  feminine  mind,  so  susceptible  of 
impressions,  should  never  be  spontaneously  consigned  to 
foreign  culture.  Katherine  was  worthy  of  her  preceptress. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  dilate  upon  her  excellence — a  portrait  by 
my  hand  might  be  deemed  the  glowing  creation  of  a  brother's 
fondness.  It  is  enough  to  mention  the  strength  of  our  attach- 
ment. I  was  two  years  her  senior;  and  when  her  age  quali- 
fied her  for  sharing  in  childish  pastimes,  she  was  the  welcome 
partner  of  all  my  amusements.  I  showered  into  her  lap  the 
first  flowers  of  spring,  and  brought  her  the  wild  strawberry 
from  heights  where  few  would  venture.  In  her  friendship  I 
reposed  the  confidence  of  ripening  boyhood — frequently  were 
the  overflowings  of  a  sanguine  temperament  repressed  by  her 
mildness.  "With  innocent  wiles  she  endeavored  to  veil  my 
errors  from  parental  eyes:  when  I  did  incur  displeasure,  her 
accustomed  gayety  was  gone,  and  the  voice  that  recalled  her 
truant  smile  was  ever  that  which  pardoned  the  offender. 

A  cheerful  home  is  the  paradise  of  the  young:  our's  was 
illuminated  by  mutual  love.  The  lightsome  moments  spent 
by  the  domestic  hearth,  form  the  only  period  of  my  life  that  I 
would  willingly  live  over  again.  The  music  of  the  camp 
and  of  the  theatre,  heard  in  after  years,  failed  to  awaken  the 
emotions  I  experienced  long  ago,  when  my  mother  sang  the 
plaintive  melodies  of  her  mountain  land.  I  have  seen  the 
most  renowned  generals  of  an  age  memorable  for  strife — 
among  them,  one  to  wThom  an  astonished  world  did  reverence 


THE    CASTLE    OF    ST.    MICHAEL.  161 

— but  no  warrior  have  I  beheld  to  rival  my  conceptions  of 
William  Tell.  The  peasant  of  Uri  was  the  hero  of  our  fire- 
side. When  the  casement  shivered  to  the  gusts  of  winter, 
and  the  headlong  flood  thundered  down  the  ravine,  we  called 
to  mind  the  intrepid  hand  that  steered  the  bark  of  Gesler 
over  the  stormy  waters.  Altorf  and  the  Austrians  were  to 
us  exhaustless  themes ;  and  I  prayed  that  I  might  yet  have 
the  opportunity  of  imitating  the  courage  of  my  namesake, 
Albert,  the  Patriot's  unshrinking  son. 

II. 

I  was  entering  my  twentieth  year,  when  our  situation 
underwent  an  important  change.  Our  landlord  was  gathered 
to  his  ancestors,  having  bequeathed  his  Lombardy  estate  to 
his  second  son,  Count  Rainer.  Engel,  the  good  old  steward, 
was  soon  after  dismissed  from  office,  and  retired,  with  the 
fruits  of  faithful  service,  to  his  native  town  in  Carniola. 

Count  Rainer  was  a  captain  in  the  imperial  army.  He 
was  with  his  regiment  at  Pavia  when  informed  of  his  father's 
death.  Devolving  his  authority  on  an  emancipated  sergeant  of 
hussars,  the  purveyor  of  his  libertine  pleasures,  he  dispatched 
him  to  St.  Michael  to  wring  money  from  the  tenantry  and 
prepare  for  his  reception. 

Ludolf  was  a  swaggering  bravo,  emulous,  at  middle  age, 
of  the  vices  of  profligate  youth.  On  his  arrival,  he  circulated 
a  pompous  intimation  that  he  came  vested  with  full  powers 
to  treat  with  the  vassals  of  the  Count,  and  renew  their  engage- 
ments. 

My  sister  had  gone  to  the  village  to  make  purchases,  and 
I  left  the  mill  at  vesper  chime  with  the  intention  of  meeting 
her.  The  path  was  abrupt,  and  little  frequented.  I  was 
cherishing  discontent  at  the  husbandman's  unvaried  exist- 
ence, when  I  was  roused  by  the  distant  accents  of  a  female 
in  distress.  They  were  clearly  distinguishable,  and  I  rushed 
to  the  quarter  whence  they  proceeded.     In  a  corner  of  an 

14* 


162  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

open  spot,  backed  by  a  deep  ditch,  fenced  with  luxuriant 
underwood,  Katherine  was  keeping  a  man,  unknown  to  me, 
at  bay:  he  was  above  the  middle  size,  and  in  his  beard  and 
costume  affected  the  fashion  of  the  military.  He  faced  me 
as  I  approached,  and  my  sister,  with  disordered  dress  and 
agitated  frame,  flew  to  my  side.  Defenceless  as  I  was,  my 
first  impulse  was  to  chastise  the  ruffian,  though  he  wore  a 
sabre ;  but  consideration  for  the  terrified  girl,  who  clung  to 
me  imploringly,  induced  me  to  forego  my  purpose.  We  had 
not  receded  many  paces,  when  Katherine  relinquished  her 
hold,  and  uttered  a  warning  cry : — the  hand  of  violence  was 
already  at  my  throat ;  and  a  harsh  voice,  unsteady  from  rage 
or  intemperance,  demanded  why  a  contemptible  slave  dared 
to  interfere  with  the  representative  of  Count  Rainer. 

Unequal  to  my  opponent  in  bulk  and  inert  force,  T  was  far 
above  him  in  activity  and  the  resources  of  a  vigorous  con- 
stitution. A  sudden  jerk  freed  me  from  his  hold,  and  a  well- 
applied  push  sent  him  reeling  to  the  verge  of  the  ditch.  He 
drew  his  weapon  with  a  rapidity  on  which  I  had  not  calcu- 
lated: Katherine's  coolness  saved  my  life:  she  arrested  his 
arm  in  its  sweep.  Ere  he  could  disengage  himself,  I  col- 
lected all  my  energy  for  one  buffet,  and  laid  him  supine  in 
the  reservoir  of  mud. 

III. 

Count  Rainer  was  greeted  at  St.  Michael  with  the  show  of 
rustic  rejoicing  usual  on  the  appearance  of  a  new  master. 
He  was  accompanied  by  a  train  of  riotous  associates.  The 
roar  of  bacchanalian  merriment  shook  the  dusky  halls  of  his 
patrimonial  fabric,  which,  in  the  blaze  of  unwanted  festivity, 
seemed  to  have  renewed  its  youth.  Naught,  from  the  evening 
of  the  rencounter,  had  we  heard  or  seen  of  Ludolf.  His 
rudeness  might  have  originated  in  the  coarse  jocularity  of  a 
soldier,  stimulated  by  too  fervid  an  application  to  the  bottle. 
Prudence   required  that   I   should  abstain   from   needlessly 


THE  CASTLE  OF  ST.  MICHAEL.  163 

irritating  a  man  whose  enmity  might  mar  my  father's  ar- 
rangements with  his  lord :  I  therefore  avoided  the  chance  of 
collision. 

I  was  strolling  about  the  fields  with  my  gun  on  my 
shoulder,  when  a  pet  pigeon  of  Katherine's  whirred  past  me, 
pursued  by  a  hawk.  I  fired  at  the  bird  of  prey,  which 
dropped  in  an  adjoining  meadow.  Springing  across  the 
intervening  hedge,  I  found  myself  in  the  presence  of  a  group 
of  mounted  sportsmen  and  their  attendants.  One  of  the 
horsemen  was  examining  the  dead  hawk ;  his  attention  was 
directed  towards  me  by  a  retainer,  in  whose  brawny  pro- 
portions, husky  voice,  and  ferocious  moustachios,  I  recognized 
my  adversary,  Ludolf. 

My  gun  was  demanded,  in  the  name  of  Count  Rainer:  I 
refused  to  surrender  it.  The  party  formed  a  circle  around, 
pinioned  me,  and  wrested  it  from  me,  ere  I  could  attempt 
resistance.  "Mr.  Steward,"  said  the  Count,  "you  may  now 
acquaint  your  friend  with  the  consequences  of  destroying  a 
nobleman's  falcon." 

The  ready  villian  and  his  servile  followers  dragged  me  to 
the  earth  ;  they  profaned  my  person  by  stripes.  When  they 
left  me  in  my  abasement,  the  air  felt  pestilent  with  their 
brutal  laughter. 

I  lay  with  my  face  to  the  greensward  long  after  their  de- 
parture. My  brain  was  eddying  in  a  hell-whirl.  I  could 
have  welcomed  the  return  of  chaos,  that  the  circumstance  of 
my  shame  might  be  obliterated  in  the  clash  of  contending 
elements.  Had  the  sun  been  blotted  from  the  heavens,  and 
the  summer  earth  turned  to  blackness  and  desolation,  I 
should  have  thought  them  fit  and  natural  occurrences.  I 
raised  my  burning  brow ;  but  the  orb  of  day  was  riding  high 
in  his  glory,  and  the  meadow  grass  and  wild  flowers  were 
fresh  and  fragrant  as  if  they  had  not  witnessed  the  act  of 
degradation.  I  discovered  that  a  stranger  had  been  regard- 
ing me  with  a  vigilant  eye.     I  confronted  him,  and  darted  at 


164  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

hira  a  devouring  glance;  his  firm,  contemplative  look  re- 
mained unaltered.  Placing  a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  he  said, 
"Albert  Reding,  consider  me  your  friend." 

"  I  know  you  not,"  I  answered,  "nor  care  to  know  you." 
He  smiled  benevolently:  "Young  man,  I  am  no  Austrian. 
I  shall  be  with  you  to  morrow." 

IV. 

The  stranger  kept  his  word — on  the  ensuing  day  he  came 
to  our  dwelling.  Making,  he  said,  a  tour  through  the  North 
of  Italy,  the  picturesque  scenery  tempted  him  to  prolong  his 
sojourn  at  St.  Michael.  In  his  excursions,  he  had  chanced 
to  hold  random  converse  with  my  father,  whom  he  professed 
to  value  as  the  worthy  descendant  of  an  independent  and 
intelligent  people. 

I  had  forborne  to  grieve  my  family  by  the  story  of  my  dis- 
grace, nor  had  it  yet  been  detailed  to  them  by  the  officious 
communicativeness  of  pretended  friends.  Our  visitor  made 
no  allusion  to  it,  but  expatiated  very  agreeably  on  topics  of 
general  interest.  He  described  the  passes  of  the  Alps  with 
the  accuracy  of  a  mountaineer,  and  displayed  an  intimacy 
with  the  localities  of  the  Cantons  that  filled  my  parents  with 
pleasure  and  surprise.  In  pursuit  of  knowledge,  he  had 
traversed  the  most  remarkable  sections  of  the  globe  ;  and  his 
observations,  affluent  in  instruction,  proved  that  his  wander- 
ings had  been  of  a  different  order  from  the  capricious  migra- 
tions of  sight-seeking  wealth. 

The  warmth  with  which  I  seconded  some  of  his  sentiments 
appeared  to  please  him.  He  complimented  my  father  on  my 
education;  adding,  that  the  judgment  with  which  I  developed 
its  resources  designated  me  for  a  wider  sphere  of  action  than 
belonged  to  a  tiller  of  the  soil  of  Lombardy.  I  had  been 
vain  enough  to  entertain  the  same  opinion ;  and  its  confirma- 
tion, by  a  competent  authority,  was  balm  to  my  spirit.  Gladly 
I  acceded  to  his  request,  of  guiding  him  to  the  Baron's  Font, 


THE  CASTLE  OF  ST.  MICHAEL.  1G5 

a  romantic  cascade,  where,  to  use  his  own  language,  he 
sighed  to  offer  allegiance  to  Nature. 

The  Baron's  Font  was  distant  about  three  leagues,  among 
the  hills.  Rustic  tradition  ascribed  the  origin  of  its  name  to 
the  cruelty  and  profanity  of  a  feudal  noble,  who,  in  mockery 
of  the  Christian's  initiatory  rite,  precipitated  the  objects  of 
his  ferocity  from  an  impending  cliff  into  the  basin  of  the 
waterfall.  My  companion  noted  the  peculiarities  of  the  route, 
and  committed  to  writing  the  information  I  furnished  respect- 
ing the  district.  We  rested  on  the  summit  of  a  steep,  skirted 
by  the  foaming  stream  of  the  cascade,  beyond  which  rose 
wooded  grounds  in  bold  acclivity,  mellowing  with  their  dusky 
greenness  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  a  mouldering  tower. 

The  stranger  abruptly  adverted  to  the  hateful  humiliation 
of  the  preceding  day.  He  descanted  on  the  contumely  I 
had  suffered,  with  a  vehement  bitterness  that  chafed  my 
young  blood  to  flame.  I  denounced  endless  hostility  against 
the  Count  and  his  minions.  He  calmly  commented  on  the 
futility  of  the  threat.  In  the  frenzy  of  exasperation,  I  insinu- 
ated the  possibility  of  resorting  to  the  darkest  means  of  ac- 
complishing revenge.  He  replied,  that  in  cooler  moments  I 
would  spurn  the  idea  of  Italian  vengeance.  Requiring  a 
pledge  of  secresy,  he  proceeded  to  point  out  an  honorable 
mode  of  lowering  the  crest  of  the  oppressor. 

"My  name,"  he  said,  "is  Philippon— my  profession,  a 
military  engineer,  in  the  service  of  the  French  Republic. 
The  armies  of  Liberty  only  await  the  capture  of  Toulon  to 
sever  the  chains  of  Italy.  I  am  terminating  a  secret  journey 
of  observation  through  Piedmont  and  the  Milanese.  Come 
with  me  to  Paris,  and  join  the  standard  of  Freedom.  In 
France  no  parchment  barrier  excludes  untitled  youth  from 
fame  and  fortune;  draw  a  blade  in  her  cause,  and  relieve  the 
place  of  your  nativity  from  the  thraldom  of  its  petty  tyrant. 
These  brutal  and  stolid  Austrians  must  be  driven  to  their 
land  of  hereditary  bondage— justice  demands  it.     The  time 


IQQ  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

has  gone  by  for  insulted  and  injured  Humanity  to  shed 
tears  in  secret.  Five  dreary  years  I  pined  in  the  dismal 
solitudes  of  the  Bastile— I  saw  it  fall,  amidst  the  curses  of 
my  countrymen;  and  never  shall  the  spirit  of  a  liberated 
nation  taste  repose,  until  every  stronghold  of  remorseless 
power  is  patent  to  the  winds  of  heaven  as  yon  grim  old 
fortress,  where  the  Count  Rainers  of  the  past  outraged  with 
impunity  the  natural  equality  of  man!" 

The  majesty  of  generous  indignation  irradiated  his  brow: 
the  eloquent  thunders  of  the  Roman  forum  seemed  to  roll 
around  me. — I  agreed  to  attend  him  to  the  capital  of  the 
young  republic. 

V. 

Bent  on  entering  the  field  of  martial  adventure,  I  antici- 
pated much  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  concurrence  of  my 
father.  A  lover  of  tranquillity,  he  had  sickened  at  the  san- 
guinary measures  that  crimsoned  the  cradle  of  the  French 
Revolution.  Yielding  also  to  age  and  infirmity,  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  the  prospect  of  resigning  to  me  the  chief 
management  of  our  affairs.  The  narrative  of  my  shame, 
however,  which  led  him  to  tremble  for  the  consequences, 
determined  him  against  opposing  my  departure.  Of  my 
military  project,  and  the  pursuits  of  my  patron,  I  made  no 
disclosure— I  barely  stated  the  fact,  that  he  had  promised  to 
provide  for  me  at  Paris,  and  proposed,  in  the  mean  time, 
giving  me  employment  as  an  amanuensis. 

Sorrow  and  Joy  are  twin  daughters  of  Affection.  Notwith- 
standing the  excitement  of  curiosity  and  ambition,  reluctantly 
and  despondingly  I  crossed  our  humble  threshold.  I  went 
away  at  night,  and  this  added  to  the  melancholy  character  of 
the  separation.  My  mother  was  unwell,  and  at  her  bedside 
I  received  her  blessing.  The  features  of  my  gentle-natured 
sister  gave  dim  and  pallid  testimony  to  the  fullness  of  her 
affliction.    When  I  had  parted  with  my  parents,  she  escorted 


THE    CASTLE-OF    ST.    MICHAEL.  167 

me  to  the  extremity  of  the  orchard.  "Oh,  Albert!"  were 
the  only  words  she  had  power  to  utter;  and  her  face  looked 
so  mournful — so  heart-appealing,  in  the  moonlight — that  to 
desert  her  smote  me  as  a  sin.  One  embrace,  and  I  bounded 
off  like  a  chamois — then  paused,  till  weeping  relieved  my 
soul — Katherine !   Katherine ! 

Through  provinces  where  every  man  appeared  fearful  of 
his  fellow,  we  journeyed  to  the  metropolis  of  France.  That 
city,  the  great  political  heart  of  the  empire,  more  than  par- 
ticipated in  the  feverishness  of  its  members.  Armed  artizans 
patroled  the  streets;  the  shrine  of  St.  Guillotine  had  left  the 
Romish  Kalendar  destitute  of  homage,  and  ecclesiastical  pro- 
cessions were  rendered  obsolete  by  the  morning  march  to  the 
scaffold.  Terror  stalked  gigantic  in  the  citadel  of  Freedom: 
the  dead  were  thrown  into  unhonored  graves,  and  the  living 
cowered  timorously  in  corners  to  lament  them.  I  entered 
the  Assembly,  whose  decrees  had  struck  down  the  proud  and 
elevated  the  lowly.  Here,  thought  I,  are  sages  congregated 
worthy  of  creation's  golden  sera !  The  chiefs  of  the  conven- 
tion pronounced  their  orations: — Proscription!  Proscription! 
was  the  cry;  and,  as  the  elements  of  discord  raged,  the 
scene  resembled  a  hideous  melee  of  savage  beasts  in  an  an- 
cient  amphitheatre. 

I  could  not  conceal  from  Philippon  the  extent  of  my  dis- 
appointment: "You  talk  of  regenerating  the  world,"  I  ex- 
claimed, "and  you  have  revived  the  horrors  of  the  Trium- 
virate!" 

"Your's,"  he  replied,  "  is  the  decision  of  inexperience, 
that  condemns  the  fruit  ere  it  has  had  time  to  ripen.  The 
healthful  wind,  which  ministers  to  the  drooping  frame  of  Na- 
ture, at  the  same  moment  dissipates  contagion  and  whelms 
the  mariner  in  the  deep.  Neither  political  nor  physical  good 
is  gratuitously  granted ;  rather  let  our  fields  be  irrigated  with 
blood  than  that  their  harvests  should  be  gathered  by  the  hands 
of  bondmen!     What  is  the  doubtful  lease  of  life — this  brief 


168  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

and  irksome  tenure — to  the  happiness  of  posterity?  Were  I 
to  linger  here  for  centuries,  would  not  my  native  land  still 
survive  me  with  its  millions  of  kindred  beings,  to  whom 
social  law  must  prove  the  mighty  instrument  of  evil  or  of 
good?" 

VI. 

I  remained  about  a  year  in  Paris  in  the  house  of  my  patron. 
Toulon  had  fallen,  and  the  army  of  Italy  had  commenced  ope- 
rations by  a  successful  movement  on  the  Sardinian  frontier. 
Profiting  by  the  opportunity  I  possessed  of  studying  the 
theory  of  the  military  art,  I  was  rewarded  with  a  commission 
in  a  regiment  of  the  line — one  of  those  destined  for  the  inva- 
sion of  the  Milanese.  I  received,  with  alacrity,  the  order  to 
proceed  to  Nice.  I  was  shocked  and  disgusted  by  the  dreary 
spectacle  of  civil  broil,  and  I  thirsted  for  distinction.  The 
memory  of  wrong  also  rankled  in  my  bosom,  and  in  my 
dreams  I  planted  the  revolutionary  banner  on  the  battlements 
of  St.  Michael,  and  heard  myself  hailed  in  the  halls  of  the 
insolent  Austrian  with  the  acclamations  due  to  a  hero. 

I  joined  my  regiment  and  learned,  not  many  months  after, 
that  my  protector,  Philippon,  had  fled  to  England,  to  escape 
the  fate  which,  as  a  philosophic  patriot,  he  affected  to  disre- 
gard. His  exile  grieved  me.  I  had  shared  largely  in  his 
favors;  and  he  had  never  neutralized  their  influence  by  the 
slightest  alloy  of  unkindness. 

A  government  weakened  by  vacillations  in  its  form,  and 
dissensions  in  the  capital,  permitted  the  army,  with  which 
my  hopes  were  associated,  to  languish  ill-appointed  and 
inactive.  Instead  of  running  a  career  of  glory,  it  was  forced 
to  contend  with  the  most  depressing  privations. — In  my  de- 
spondency, a  long-delayed  letter  arrived  from  my  father.  Its 
contents  were  almost  limited  to  the  earnest  request  that  I 
would  immediately  hasten  home. 

Its  emphatic  urgency,  unaccompanied  by  explanation,  as- 


THE    CASTLE    OF    ST.    MICHAEL.  169 

sured  me  that  all  went  not  well.  I  would  fain  have  obeyed 
the  summons,  but  it  was  impracticable.  The  Directory, 
established  in  authority,  ordered  the  army  of  Italy  to  the 
field.  General  Bonaparte,  an  officer  in  his  twenty-sixth  year, 
marshaled  the  way  to  the  Alps. 

VII. 

Napoleon's  campaigns  in  1796  are  familiar  to  all  Europe. 
It  was  my  fortune  to  be  present  in  the  most  remarkable  en- 
gagements, and  to  escape  without  a  wound.  When  Wurm- 
ser,  after  repeated  defeats,  succeeded  in  recruiting  his  forces 
in  the  Tyrol,  a  strong  body  of  our  troops,  headed  by  the 
commander-in-chief,  advanced  against  a  division  of  20,000 
Austrians  stationed  at  Roveredo.  Our  line  of  march  lay 
through  the  district  of  my  birth.  A  few  hours  before  we  were 
in  motion  I  was  summoned  to  the  quarters  of  the  General. 
It  was  the  well-known  characteristic  of  this  extraordinary 
man  scrupulously  to  ascertain  the  extent  of  his  resources, 
even  to  the  qualifications  of  an  individual  soldier. 

Aware  of  my  knowledge  of  the  country  he  was  about  to 
penetrate,  he  wished  to  make  it  subservient  to  his  purpose. 
He  questioned  me  as  to  the  correctness  of  some  local  infor- 
mation which,  I  perceived,  had  been  derived  from  the  docu- 
ments of  Philippon.  Satisfied  on  these  points,  he  sportively 
inquired  if  I  had  any  dislike  to  act  as  his  herald  to  my  old 
neighbors.  I  related  my  obligations  to  our  German  superior, 
and  he  promised  me  ample  powers  for  discharging  them  in 
full. 

We  were  evidently  unexpected.  No  artificial  obstacle 
opposed  our  progress,  and  we  proceeded  with  unexampled 
celerity.  Our  advanced  posts  were  only  separated  from  St. 
Michael  by  a  few  miles  of  broken  ground,  when  I  was  dis- 
patched with  a  detachment  to  surprise  it.  The  troops  halted 
in  a  chestnut  grove,  about  half  a  league  from  the  mill,  while  I, 
grappling  a  fowling-piece,  assuming  a  light  hunting  cap,  and 
15  ~ 


170  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

covering  my  uniform  with  an  ordinary  cloak,  went  forth  to 
reconnoitre  the  place,  and  to  provide  for  the  safety  of  my 
relatives. 

I  skirted  round  the  village  and  castle,  which  I  found  were 
occupied  by  a  company  of  Hungarian  infantry  under  Count 
Rainer.  Not  anticipating  the  irruption  of  an  enemy  into 
their  secluded  fastness,  camp  indulgences  had  relaxed  order. 
My  informer,  a  poor  peasant,  seemed  afraid  of  confiding  to  a 
stranger  his  opinion  of  the  Count  and  his  followers.  I  asked 
concerning  my  family,  but  with  the  name  of  Reding  he  was 
unacquainted. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  September.  There  had  been  a 
continuance  of  unusually  sultry  weather,  and  the  melting  of 
the  mountain  snows  had  swelled  the  stream  at  St.  Michael 
to  an  impetuous  torrent.  Twilight  was  approaching  when  I 
reached  a  sheltered  position  on  the  bank  opposite  the  castle. 
The  waters  dashed  furiously  against  the  base  of  the  building, 
and  the  crazy  supports  of  the  antiquated  bridge  quivered  like 
a  harpstring. 

I  resolved  on  a  nocturnal  attack,  and  was  about  to  seek  a 
passing  interview  with  the  dear  domestic  circle,  when,  look- 
ing towards  the  castle,  I  saw  what  stayed  my  step.  A  fe- 
male ran  wildly  to  the  stream,  pursued  by  some  menials,  in 
the  rear  of  whom,  on  horseback,  came  the  Count  their  mas- 
ter. The  fugitive  cleared  the  bridge  just  as  her  pursuers 
gained  it.  At  that  moment  the  centre  of  the  infirm  structure 
gave  way  to  the  torrent.  Concealed  among  the  trees,  I  per- 
ceived the  female  on  bended  knees,  distractedly  blessing  God 
for  her  deliverance ;  and  I  knew  that  it  was  Katherine,  my 
only — my  beloved  sister! 

I  fired  a  shot  at  him  who  had  been  foremost  in  the  chase — 
the  infamous  Ludolf — as  he  clambered  up  a  remnant  of  the 
shattered  bridge.  He  stood  unhurt  amidst  the  group  that 
surveyed  me,  while  I  sheltered  the  dove  of  my  boyhood  in 
my  bosom.     In  the  confusion  I  exposed  my  uniform;  the 


THE    CASTLE    OF    ST.    MICHAEL.  171 

alarm  was  given,  and  every  instant  became  precious.  I  sup- 
ported Katherine  until  out  of  sight  of  the  foe.  "Fly!"  I 
cried,  "fly  to  our  parents,  dear  sister!  tell  them  I  shall  bring 
glad  tidings  in  the  morning!" 

I  counseled  in  vain.  The  sense  of  injury  had  unsettled 
her  mind — she  hung  helplessly  upon  me — her  lips  moved  but 
I  could  distinguish  nothing  of  what  she  spoke,  save  the  repe- 
tition of  the  words  "Home!  I  have  no  home!" — Oh  God! 
she  was  sadly  altered! 

A  bugle  echoed  among  the  cliffs.  I  bore  her  to  a  cavern, 
the  discovery  of  my  youth,  and  wrapt  her  in  my  cloak. 
Hurrying,  by  familiar  paths,  with  a  speed  I  had  never  before 
exerted,  I  rejoined  my  associates. 

VIII. 

An  intricate  and  circuitous  track  brought  us,  at  midnight, 
to  the  isolated  church  of  St.  Michael,  commanding  the  vil- 
lage and  the  narrow  road  to  the  castle.  We  crouched  in  the 
churchyard,  until  every  sound  ceased,  and  the  lights  that  had 
blazed  in  different  directions  wrere  no  longer  visible.  Leav- 
ing part  of  my  force  to  intercept  the  communication  with  the 
village,  I  led  the  remainder  to  a  point  of  the  fortress  which  I 
had  scaled  in  my  youthful  rambles. 

The  pacing  of  the  sentinels,  and  the  noisy  vigils  of  the 
Count  and  his  guests,  w^ere  clearly  audible  as  I  descended 
the  ivied  wall.  My  party  followed,  one  by  one,  and  our  suc- 
cess would  have  been  signally  complete,  but  for  the  acci- 
dental discharge  of  a  musket.  This  was  answered  by  a 
volley  from  the  guard,  the  din  of  arms,  and  the  hasty  gather- 
ing of  a  tumultuous  body  of  defenders.  Ordering  my  men  to 
keep  close  and  follow  me,  we  pressed  forward  to  a  private 
door  that  opened  into  the  body  of  the  pile. 

This  barrier  was  quickly  shattered  by  a  shower  of  balls, 
and  in  a  second  the  great  hall  resounded  with  the  groans  of 
the  dying  and  the  shouts  of  the  triumphant.     In  that  arena 


172  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

of  slaughter  I  was  collected  as  I  am  now.  Once  had  Rainer's 
bloated  visage  confronted  me  in  the  fray,  but  the  baleful 
meteor  vanished,  and  bootless  to  me  was  the  issue  of  the  con- 
flict, until  blade  or  bullet  did  its  work  on  him  and  his  subor- 
dinate. 

The  hall  gave  indications  of  a  carousal.  The  red  wine 
streaming  from  flagons  overturned  in  the  struggle,  mingled 
with  the  life-drops  of  the  wassailers.  Death  derived  a  more 
appalling  aspect  from  the  relics  of  recent  revelry.  Some  in- 
toxicated wretches  had  been  bayonetted  with  the  goblets  in 
their  hands.  One  had  fallen  backwards  on  the  hearth  above 
the  burning  embers ;  he  was  mortally  wounded,  and  the  blood 
gushed  freely  in  the  flames.  I  stooped  to  raise  him  from  his 
bed  of  torture.  The  streaks  of  gore  did  not  disguise  the 
lineaments  of  Ludolf.  The  reprobate  had  closed  his  reckon- 
with  mortality. 

Victory  was  ours,  but  discipline  was  at  an  end;  I  could 
with  difficulty  muster  sentinels  for  the  night;  the  cellars 
were  ransacked,  and  weariness  and  intemperance  soon  pro- 
duced their  effects.  Sending  confidential  messengers  to  at- 
tend to  my  sister's  safety  and  convey  intelligence  to  my 
father,  1  prepared  to  await  the  dawn  of  morning. 

Feverish  from  anxiety,  I  felt  no  inclination  to  grant  my 
wearied  limbs  repose.  My  brain  was  racked  with  the  thought 
of  Katherine,  and  apprehension  for  my  parents.  I  had  seen 
enough  to  convince  me  that  Rainer  had  done  his  worst. — 
What  confederate  demon  had  enabled  him  to  escape  me? 

I  paced  from  post  to  post,  execrating  the  sluggish  march 
of  time.  Leaning  over  an  eminence  near  the  broken  bridge, 
I  listened  to  the  turbulent  music  of  the  waters.  A  subter- 
raneous opening  cut  in  the  rocky  soil  below  communicated 
with  the  vaults  of  the  castle.  Hearing  the  echo  of  a  foot- 
fall, I  bent  cautiously  over  the  outlet.  A  lamp  glimmered 
beneath.  A  muffled  figure  raised  it  aloft  to  guide  its  egress, 
then  extinguished  it  hastily.  The  light  fell  on  the  face  of  the 
Count. 


THE    CASTLE    OF    ST.    MICHAEL.  173 

I  grasped  his  cloak  as  he  emerged,  but,  slipping  it  from 
his  shoulders,  he  retreated  towards  a  shelving  wood-walk  on 
the  margin  of  the  stream.  Had  he  gained  it,  the  darkness 
must  have  saved  him.  Both  my  pistols  missed  fire.  I  out- 
stripped him  in  the  race,  and  bore  him  back  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  ravine.  He  made  a  thrust  at  me  with  his  sword.  I 
neither  paused  for  a  trial  of  skill,  nor  attempted  to  ward  off 
the  weapon;  the  butt  end  of  a  pistol  found  its  way  to  his 
forehead;  not  a  sound  passed  his  lips;  down  he  went — down 
— down — passively  bounding  over  the  jagged  declivity,  till  a 
heavy  plash  told  that  he  was  whirling  with  the  torrent. 

Vengeance  was  satisfied:  I  recoiled  involuntarily  from  the 
scene  of  the  encounter.  Suddenly  arose  an  explosion,  as  if 
a  volcano  had  torn  up  the  foundation  of  the  castle :  I  was 
felled  to  the  earth  ere  I  could  speculate  upon  the  cause. 

IX. 

My  Campaigns  were  over.  Rainer  had  laid  a  train,  and 
fired  the  powder  magazine  of  his  captured  hold.  The  bravest 
of  my  men  perished ;  and  I,  crushed  beneath  a  fragment  of 
the  toppling  towers,  lived  to  curse  the  art  that  returned  me, 
mutilated  and  miserable,  to  a  world  in  which  I  was  hence- 
forth to  have  no  portion. 

I  left  the  hospital  a  phantom,  and  set  forth  on  a  pilgrimage, 
the  performance  of  which  was  the  only  business  that  remained 
to  me  in  life.  The  tide  of  battle  had  ebbed  from  St.  Michael, 
when  I  crawled  up  its  steep — the  church  and  castle  were 
blackened  ruins — the  habitations  of  the  villagers  roofless  and 
deserted — the  mill  a  shapeless  mass  of  timber  and  stones. 
Our  orchard  was  unfolding  the  buds  of  spring — I  fancied 
that  the  hoary  apple  trees  wore  the  aspect  of  friends — the 
voice  of  singing  floated  on  my  ear,  as  I  neared  the  dwelling 
of  my  infancy,  and  the  fountain  of  my  heart  re-opened. 

Close  to  the  spot  where  our  pretty  porch  once  stood,  a  ma- 
tron, in  the  garb  of  extreme  penury,  was  bending  over  the 

15* 


174  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

trampled  remains  of  a  plot  of  flowers.  Her  features  were 
only  partially  revealed,  but  the  mountain  melody  she  sang 
could  not  be  mistaken — I  fell  at  my  mother's  feet !  Shading 
back  the  hair  from  my  scarred  temples,  she  asked  me  if  I  had 
come  from  her  children ! 

Mercy  was  vouchsafed  to  her  and  to  me.  She  soon  slumber- 
ed with  the  clods  of  the  valley.  My  father  had  died  ere  my 
departure  from  France ;  and  the  story  of  our  injuries  from 
the  Austrian  lightened  the  burden  of  remorse  for  the  shedding 
of  blood.  I  have  discovered  no  trace  of  Katherine  since  I 
quitted  her  at  the  cave. 

X. 

My  day  has  been  without  a  meridian — divided  between 
eventide  and  morn :  heavy  were  the  clouds  that  eclipsed  its 
sunshine,  but  they  are  fleeting  away ;  and,  now  that  night  is 
waxing  apace,  my  up-turned  soul  beholds  its  moon  rising 
resplendent  with  hope. 

If  I  have  not  experienced  felicity  in  the  friendly  shades  of 
the  Lake  of  Zurich,  I  have  at  least  cast  off  the  poisoned  gar- 
ment of  reflection.  Ever  be  they  blessed,  the  kind  ones  who 
smoothed  the  pillow  of  the  spirit-broken ! 

War  has  been  over  the  globe.  The  arch-destroyer  and  a 
myriad  of  the  unnoted  slain  are  wrapt  alike  in  the  undis- 
cerning  dust,  yet  man  is  still  unredeemed  from  bondage. 
When  shall  Peace  go  forth  as  a  conqueror,  arrayed  in  the 
panoply  of  Wisdom  ? 


TO AND 

ON  THEIR  APPROACHING  MARRIAGE. 

BY  WILLIAM  ROSCOE,  ESd- 

'Tis  not  the  cymbal's  silver  sound, 
'Tis  not  the  tabor's  light  rebound ; 
Nor  all  that  music's  stores  supply, 
Can  touch  the  soul  with  genuine  joy. 

'Tis  the  calm  bliss,  the  pure  delight, 
When  hearts  with  virtuous  hearts  unite ; 
The  conscious  feeling,  heaven-approved, 
That  loves,  and  knows  itself  beloved. 

Yet  one  mild  voice  the  silence  breaks, 
From  yon  blue  tract  of  air  it  speaks— 
"  Go  on,  my  children!  trusting  go! 
And  prosperous  be  your  course  below. 

Go  on,  in  tried  affection  dear, 
In  humble  hope— in  holy  fear ; 
Tread  in  the  steps  your  fathers  trod, 
And  be  your  rest  your  fathers'  God. 


MADELINE. 

A    LEGEND    OF    CASTLE    CAMPBELL. 


BT    DELTA. 


Sir  John  de  Campbell,  a  young  and  gallant  knight  of 
Argyleshire,  had  long  sued  for  the  hand  of  the  fair  Lady 
Madeline,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Rothsay,  at  that  time  resi- 
dent at  the  Scottish  court,  at  Dunfermline ;  but,  owing  to 
family  differences,  his  suit  had  been  unavailing,  although  the 
affections  of  the  gentle  lady  were  well  known  to  be  his.  The 
power  and  infiuenceof  the  Rothsay  family,  together  with  their 
alliance  to  royalty,  rendered  a  daughter  of  that  line  an  object 
of  politic  ambition  among  the  young  nobles;  and,  if  the  fair 
young  creature  remained  single  until  twenty  summers  had 
shone  in  her  blue  eyes,  it  may  be  veritably  set  down  to  a 
determinate  resolution  of  her  own,  and  not  to  lack  of  suitors. 
In  connection  with  our  little  narrative,  however,  it  need  only 
be  remarked,  that  among  the  rivals  was  Lord  Duffus,  a  gal- 
lant of  handsome  person,  but  of  loose  manners  and  dissolute 
conduct.  He  was  soon  destined  to  find  himself  in  the  bad 
graces  both  of  sire  and  child ;  his  suit,  amounting  to  impor- 
tunity, received  a  flat  negative;  and  the  discarded  wooer 
gave  way  to  feelings  of  revenge  and  affronted  pride. 

At  this  remote  and  unsettled  era  of  Scottish  legislation,  a 
freebooter,  named  Jasper  Kemp,  whose  daring  deeds  and 
personal  prowess  rendered  him  the  terror  of  all  the  surround- 


bj  Ec 


MADELINE.  177 

ing  districts,  occupied  the  Castle  of  Gloom,  a  magnificent 
fortalice,  situated  in  a  gorge  at  the  foot  of  the  Ochills,  in  the 
parish  of  Dollar,  Clackmannanshire.  Although  in  the  imme- 
diate precincts  of  the  royal  court,  many  attempts  for  ejecting 
him  had  failed ;  the  natural  and  artificial  strength  of  his  situa- 
tion rendered  his  castle  almost  impregnable,  especially  when 
defended  by  spirits  so  bold  and  daring;  while  success,  hardi- 
hood, and  immunity  from  punishment,  had  combined  to  render 
the  outlaw  so  fearlessly  resolute,  that  he  is  said  once,  for  a 
wager,  to  have  burst  with  his  band,  in  open  daylight,  into  the 
palace  of  Dunfermline  itself,  and  succeeded  in  carrying  off 
the  dinner  from  the  king's  table. 

This  person  had  collected  about  him  men  of  determined 
courage  and  desperate  fortunes — ruffians  who  set  death  at 
defiance,  and  who  were  ready  for  hire  to  put  all  to  the  last 
stake ;  indeed,  so  extensive  were  their  rapines  and  so  unfeel- 
ing the  cruelties  they  exercised,  that  they  were  never  known 
to  be  abroad  without  the  neighboring  country  quaking  in 
terror  and  alarm.  Strong,  as  we  have  said,  in  its  natural 
site — the  Castle  of  Gloom  being  surrounded,  except  at  one 
approachable  point,  by  picturesque  mountains,  towering  to 
the  clouds— Kemp  felt,  after  the  royal  troops  had  ineffectually 
invested  it  twice  or  thrice,  that  his  principal  risk  of  being  at 
any  time  obliged  to  capitulate  must  arise  from  being  cut  off 
from  his  supply  of  water ;  but  the  energetic  mind  of  the  out- 
law determined  on  overcoming  even  this  mighty  deficiency ; 
and  he  accomplished  the  gigantic  task  of  cutting  downwards 
through  the  solid  rock  to  the  bed  of  a  rivulet,  a  descent  of 
more  than  a  hundred  feet;  the  frightful  chasm,  almost  closed 
with  weeds  and  brambles,  remaining  to  this  day  a  monument 
of  his  enterprise  and  perseverance. 

To  this  determined  and  resolute  character  Lord  Duffus 
communicated  his  design  of  carrying  away  by  force  the  fair 
Lady  Madeline  de  Rothsay;  and,  by  a  large  bribe,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  him  over  to  his  designs.     The  plan  was 


178  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

laid  in  secresy,  and  managed  with  Kemp's  usual  adroitness; 
for,  soon  afterwards,  when  the  lady,  escorted  by  two  female 
attendants,  wTas  one  summer  evening  riding  in  apparent  se- 
curity along  the  plain  towards  Inverkeithing,  she  was  sud- 
denly surrounded  by  an  armed  train,  which  burst  from  a 
neighboring  copse,  bound  her  on  her  palfrey,  separated  her 
from  her  maidens,  and  hurried  her  furiously  along  the  coast, 
in  the  direction  first  of  Culross,  then  of  Alloa.  Kemp,  imme- 
diately on  getting  her  into  safe  possession,  threw  off  his  cloak 
of  disguise,  and  rode  by  her  side  in  splendid  armor,  mounted 
on  a  war-horse  proportioned  to  his  Herculean  bulk ;  and, 
notwithstanding  the  ferocity  of  his  exterior,  he  behaved  to- 
wards his  fair  and  fainting  prisoner  with  a  courtesy  unwonted 
to  his  nature.  On  nearing  the  hamlet  of  Dollar,  the  party 
wound  along  a  wooded  path,  picturesquely  overhung  with 
rocks,  where,  in  an  opening  between  the  Ochills,  the  magni- 
ficent Castle  of  Gloom  frowned  before  them  in  the  fairy  dusk 
of  twilight.  At  the  accustomed  signal  the  gates  were  thrown 
open ;  the  train  entered ;  the  heavy  portcullis  fell  behind 
them ;  and  the  heart  of  Madeline  died  within  her,  when  she 
found  that  the  Castle  of  Gloom  was  to  be  her  prison,  and  that 
her  captor  was  none  other  than  Kemp,  the  dreaded  freebooter. 
The  better  to  cloak  his  designs,  and  to  obviate  all  suspicion 
of  his  partnership  in  this  nefarious  transaction,  Lord  Duffus 
remained  at  court — the  boon  companion  of  the  dissolute  and 
extravagant;  while  he  appeared  to  enter  with  more  than 
common  feeling  into  the  general  sorrow  that  overhung  it,  on 
the  news  of  Lady  Madeline's  forcible  abstraction  ;  and,  such 
an  adept  was  he  in  the  arts  of  hypocrisy  and  cunning,  and 
he  played  his  part  so  well,  by  making  protestations  of  service 
to  the  duke,  that  even  the  idea  of  his  being  the  main-spring 
of  the  enterprise  seems  not  for  a  moment  to  have  been  enter- 
tained by  his  most  vigilant  enemies.  So,  when  week  after 
week  of  fruitless  search  had  elapsed,  when  liberal  rewards 
had  been  offered,  and  offered  in  vain,  and,  when  the  buzz  of 


MADELINE.  179 

alarm  began  to  subside,  even  hope  itself  becoming  extinct, 
Lord  Duffus  found,  or  fancied,  that  he  might  now  venture  to 
act  with  greater  boldness,  and  risk  his  projected  visit  to  the 
Castle  of  Gloom  itself. 

It  were  vain  to  attempt  a  description  of  what  must  have 
been  the  feelings  of  Lady  Madeline  in  her  awful  and  forlorn 
situation:  but  a  few  weeks  ago  the  pride  of  her  father's  eye, 
the  ornament  of  a  royal  court,  "  the  observed  of  all  observers ;" 
and  now,  separated  from  her  friends,  shut  up  in  a  secluded 
castle,  and  the  prisoner  of  a  lawless  ruffian,  of  whose  ultimate 
designs  against  her  nothing  good  could  possibly  be  surmised, 
however  present  circumstances  might  concur  to  keep  them 
concealed.  She  had  no  doubt  of  Kemp  being  her  captor, 
and  what  was  she  to  expect  from  such  a  man?  Meanwhile, 
though  he  paid  her  only  a  short  and  respectful  visit  every 
day,  inquiring  into  her  comforts,  and  offering  the  fulfilment 
of  every  wish  she  might  breathe  consistent  with  her  situation 
as  a  prisoner,  her  heart  died  within  her  when  she  thought  of 
her  forlorn  and  awful  situation,  and  that  the  present  calm 
could  only  be  a  prelude  to  the  bursting  of  the  terrible  tempest- 
cloud.  A  dismal  mystery  overhung  her,  which  was  soon  to 
be  dispelled.  Duffus  she  never  suspected,  and  De  Campbell 
how  could  she  suspect? — "Ah!"  thought  she,  "if  De  Camp- 
bell knew  my  situation,  neither  gates  of  brass,  nor  bolts  of 
steel,  would  deter  him  from  accomplishing,  or  at  least  at- 
tempting my  rescue.  But  that  is  never  to  be,  and  I  am 
destined  to — no,  I  will  not  be  dishonored — to  perish  here!" 

Stoicism  is  an  article  beyond  the  creed  of  human  nature; 
the  coldest  bosom  has  embers  which  may  be  fortuitously 
kindled  up,  and  there  is  no  calculating  on  the  power  of 
female  beauty  over  the  heart  of  man.  Kemp  himself,  the 
daring  and  desperate  outlaw,  whose  cruelties  and  atrocities 
were  proverbial,  was  touched  with  the  divine  loveliness  of  his 
victim,  whose  tears  and  whose  tenderness  began  at  length  to 
melt  his  rugged  spirit.     But  with  passion  ambitious  designs 


180  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

also  entered  his  bosom  ;  and  these  were  fostered  by  the  im- 
pression, that  either  Duffus  was  too  much  suspected  at  court 
to  be  able  to  visit  his  unfortunate  prisoner;  or  that  he  had 
that  nobleman  sufficiently  in  his  power  to  compel  him  to  hush 
up  the  matter,  whatever  might  be  the  result.  Kemp  there- 
fore determined  to  play  a  bold  game ;  and,  screwing  up  his 
resolution  to  the  point,  he  at  once  made  an  offer  of  his  services 
to  Lady  Madeline,  on  particular  conditions.  It  is  almost 
unnecessary  to  add,  that  these  conditions  were  instantly  and 
indignantly  refused;  and,  finding  that  he  had  committed 
himself,  by  proceeding  too  precipitately  and  too  far,  he  had 
some  difficulty  in  managing  with  Lord  Duffus,  who  arrived 
at  the  Castle  of  Gloom  that  very  evening,  with  the  intention 
of  visiting  his  victim,  and  communicating  to  her  his  plan  of 
carrying  her  beyond  seas — a  vessel,  hired  for  the  express 
purpose,  being  at  the  time  riding  off  the  coast.  The  bandit 
was  taken  unawares,  but,  under  some  shrewd  pretence  or 
other,  he  prevailed  upon  him  to  defer  his  visit  until  the  suc- 
ceeding day,  when,  as  he  said,  Lady  Madeline  had  agreed 
voluntarily  to  afford  him  an  opportunity  of  explanation. 

Kemp  now  found  that  his  fortune  wTith  regard  to  his  beau- 
tiful captive  must  at  once  be  put  to  the  die.  Through  a 
sleepless  night  he  revolved  his  dark  schemes  in  his  mind, 
until  he  had  fixed  on  one  that  seemed  most  likely  to  help  him 
to  their  bloody  issue. 

A  great  quantity  of  game  abounding  at  that  time  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Castle  of  Gloom — there  being  much 
wood  and  thicket,  as  well  as  shelter  and  inequality  of  ground 
— Kemp  summoned  his  guest,  at  daybreak,  to  the  chase,  and 
a  gallant  hunting  train,  with  hound,  and  hawk,  and  bugle, 
issued  from  the  gates  into  the  morning  sunlight.  Kemp  led 
the  way  up  the  defile,  and  they  winded  along  the  pathways 
from  grove  to  glen,  until  a  buck  was  started.  The  animating 
notes  of  pursuit  were  sounded  ;  and,  after  a  short  but  rapid 
run,  the  animal  was  taking  to  his  accustomed  ford,  with  the 


MADELINE.  181 

dogs  close  upon  him,  when  Kemp,  who  was  immediately  be- 
hind Duffus,  spurred  furiously  upon  him,  and,  without  utter- 
ing a  syllable,  put  forth  his  whole  gigantic  force  in  the  thrust 
of  his  spear.  He  transfixed  him,  and  bore  him  from  his 
saddle  to  the  ground.  It  was  but  one  shriek  of  agony,  and 
then  the  coldness,  the  stiffness,  the  repose,  of  death. 

'Twas  now  the  month  of  September;  the  foliage  withering 
on  the  forest-trees  was  silently  preaching  to  man  of  the  vicis- 
situdes of  time,  and,  by  a  premature  decline  of  the  season, 
the  evening  rains  had  already  degenerated  into  snow-showers, 
when  two  or  three  of  Kemp's  trustiest  followers,  coming  to 
the  place  where  the  body  of  the  unfortunate  wretch  had  been 
hid  at  morning  in  the  thicket,  spread  out  a  mantle  on  the 
ground,  in  which  they  enveloped  the  corpse,  and  bore  it  away 
on  their  shoulders,  through  the  dusk  of  twilight,  to  the  ad- 
joining sequestered  burial-ground.  The  sun  had  sunk  behind 
the  far  western  Grampians ; — the  night-hawk  gave  his  faint 
aerial  scream  as  he  flitted  over  the  forbidding  orgies ; — the 
evening  became  clear  and  starry ; — and  a  north  wind  sweeping 
over  the  layer  of  snow  hardened  its  surface  into  a  polished 
iciness.  They  reached  the  lonely  burial-ground,  which  they 
entered  in  silence.  The  grave  had  been  already  dug — the 
body  was  tumbled  into  it — the  earth  shoveled  over; — and  a 
quantity  of  leaves,  collected  for  the  purpose,  were  scattered 
around,  to  prevent  any  traces  of  recent  digging  being  ob- 
servable. 

The  ruffian  Kemp,  seemingly  untouched  by  a  feeling  of 
remorse,  had  in  person  beheld  this  last  consummation  of  his 
atrocious  deed;  and  now,  exulting  in  the  security  of  success, 
he  returned  through  the  copse  by  a  direct  path  to  the  postern 
door  of  the  Castle,  which  he  entered,  followed  by  his  bravoes, 
who  sat  down  to  their  prepared  and  promised  carousal. 

The  fears  of  Lady  Madeline  were,  in  the  meantime,  deep- 
ening into  despair — the  hopes  that  sustained  her  were  gra- 
dually waning  away,  like  the  traces  of  sunset  from  the  west — 
16 


182  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

and,  after  brooding  over  the  misery  of  the  preceding  evening, 
her  heart  sank  within  her,  and  she  began  to  give  up  every- 
thing for  lost.  Worn  out  by  hope  deferred,  and  by  tears, 
and  terror,  and  agitation  of  mind,  she  felt  driven  to  utter 
desperation ;  and,  rising  from  her  knees,  after  imploring  the 
pardon  of  Heaven,  she  gazed  forth  on  the  stars,  twinkling  in 
the  serenity  of  the  blue  sky,  as  it  were  for  the  last  time,  and 
hid  in  her  bosom  the  dagger  with  which,  should  necessity 
urge,  she  had  come  to  the  terrible  determination  of  putting 
a  period  to  her  sufferings. 

The  night  was  now  far  advanced — the  wine-cup  had  circled 
freely — the  sounds  of  wassail  cheer  waxed  louder  in  the  hall, 
while  song  and  jest  went  round  till  the  roofs  rang,  when  a 
loud  and  hasty  summons  shook  the  gate,  and  a  herald,  with 
an  armed  band,  demanded,  in  the  king's  name,  the  surren- 
der of  the  person  of  Lord  Duffus.  Heated  with  wine,  and 
exasperated  with  rage,  Kemp  appeared  on  the  battlements, 
and  told  them  that  they  had  been  sent  on  a  false  errand — 
that  Lord  Duffus  was  not  in  his  keeping — and  that  if  they 
wTould  find  him,  they  must  seek  him  elsewhere.  He  then 
made  some  scoffing  remarks  on  their  embassy,  wished  them 
a  pleasant  ride  back,  and  returned  to  his  companions. 

Some  clue  to  the  sudden  disappearance  of  Lady  Madeline 
de  Rothsay  having  been  given  by  one  of  the  attendants  of 
Lord  Duffus,  who  had  been  privy  to  his  secret  meetings  with 
the  notorious  Kemp,  and  had  afterwards  been  dismissed  from 
his  service  in  a  drunken  frolic,  the  suspicions  of  her  friends 
had  been  suddenly  awakened;  while  the  king,  who  had  long 
in  private  favored  the  suit  of  De  Campbell,  contrived  to  have 
that  young  knight  sent  on  this  mission  to  recover  the  lost  fair 
one. 

De  Campbell  having  traced  the  journey  of  Lord  Duffus  to 
the  neighborhood  of  Castle  Gloom,  his  suspicions  were  more 
forcibly  awakened.  Aware,  however,  of  the  daring  and 
desperate  character  of  the  freebooter,  and  knowing  that  the 


MADELINE.  183 

tocsin  of  alarm  had  been  now  sounded  in  his  ears,  to  put  him 
upon  his  guard,  he  judged  it  best,  the  night  having  become 
dark  and  gloomy,  to  leave  the  rugged  and  dangerous  by-paths, 
and  proceed  without  delay  in  the  direction  of  Clackmannan 
Tower,  where  he  was  assured  of  hospitable  accommodation 
for  the  night.  Here,  too,  if  requisite,  he  could  readily  aug- 
ment his  force,  so  that  he  might  invest  the  place  in  the  morn- 
ing with  better  chance  of  success. 

The  party  had  not  proceeded  far  over  the  rugged  hill-paths 
among  the  trees,  when,  by  the  light  of  the  torches,  by  which 
they  were  necessarily  preceded,  the  track  of  recent  footsteps 
in  the  snow  attracted  their  attention,  and  a  sudden  thought 
struck  De  Campbell,  that,  by  following  the  foot-prints,  they 
might  discover  something  of  Duffus,  who,  he  strongly  sus- 
pected, must  be  lurking  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood. 
They  pursued  the  traces  on  and  on,  until  they  led  first  round 
the  edge  of  an  ancient  quarry,  then  off  by  the  skirts  of  a  copse- 
wood,  and  then,  leaving  the  common  track,  away  to  the  left, 
down  a  dell,  to  the  sequestered  burial-ground.  There,  tying 
their  horses  to  the  yew-trees,  they  groped  about  with  their 
lights,  until,  at  the  northeast  corner,  they  came  to  the  scat- 
tered leaves,  and  remarked  the  traces  of  recent  digging. 
Suspicion,  strong  before,  now  became  still  stronger.  Can  it 
be,  thought  De  Campbell,  that  the  monsters  have  murdered 
the  beautiful  Madeline  de  Rothsay,  and  buried  her  fair  body 
here  in  this  lone  and  dreary  spot?  A  cold  sweat  burst  over 
his  limbs,  his  helmet  pressed  with  a  heavier  weight  on  his 
forehead,  and  his  heart  shrunk  within  his  breast.  Words 
may  not  describe  his  emotions,  as  the  grave  was  re-opened, 
and  the  body  discovered  and  disinhumed.  The  torchlight, 
playing  on  the  cheek  of  De  Campbell,  showed  it  to  be  pale 
as  the  snow  at  his  feet ;  for,  as  they  were  unwrapping  the 
war-cloak,  he  every  moment  dreaded  to  see,  from  the  attire, 
some  dreadful  token  that  the  lady  of  his  love  slept  within  it. 
His  terrors,  however,  were  removed,  but   his    amazement 


184  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

certainly  increased,  when  he  recognized  on  the  instant  the 
blood-bedabbled  features  of  Duffus ;  and,  in  the  bosoms  of 
all,  commiseration  for  his  untimely  and  wretched  fate  almost 
stifled  the  memory  of  his  failings  and  his  crimes. 

Having  so  far  unriddled  a  most  mysterious  business,  the 
next  step  was  to  track  the  foot-marks  round  the  enclosures. 
These,  after  some  little  tediousness  of  search,  were  found  to 
lead  to  an  opening  in  the  hedge  of  evergreens,  evidently  but 
very  recently  made,  as  was  observable  from  some  detached 
branches  and  berries,  which  lay  on  the  ground  unbesprinkled 
with  the  snow,  and  which  must  have  been  torn  off  subse- 
quently to  the  shower.  Through  the  thicket  behind,  the 
traces  were  found  to  lead  onwards  to  the  postern  gate  of  the 
castle,  beside  which  De  Campbell,  having  collected  his  men, 
held  them  in  readiness  for  effecting  a  forcible  entry. 

With  the  greatest  secresy  and  silence,  the  party  reached 
the  postern  gate  of  Castle  Gloom,  which,  to  their  surprise, 
was  unlocked  and  unguarded ;  either  so  careless  of  conse- 
quences were  Kemp  and  his  associates  in  the  midst  of  their 
villany,  or  so  secure  did  they  feel  as  to  deem  themselves 
beyond  the  reach  of  surprise.     Accompanied  by  only  one 
trusty  yeoman,  De  Campbell  explored  his  way  in  darkness, 
sword  in  hand,  along  the  winding  passages,  while  his  band 
kept  possession  of  the  postern,  in  order  to  assure  his  retreat, 
if  necessary.    For  some  time  he  wandered  aimlessly  in  shade 
and  bewilderment,  until  struck  by  the  sounds  of  revelry  and 
riot  beneath  him  in  the  hall.    These  he  neared,  and  at  length 
was  attracted  towards  the  eastern  angle  of  the  building,  in 
one  of  the  lattices  of  which  he  had,  from  without,  discerned  a 
light.     While  standing  to  listen,  the  tones  of  a  human  voice 
were  indistinctly  heard,  sometimes  elevated,  as  in  loud  alter- 
cation, and  at  others,  as  if  melting  into  the  tender  pathos  of 
persuasion.     He  trode  along  as  on  swan's  down,  and  reached 
the  doorway  unmolested. 

"Yield  to  thy  fate!"  said  some  one,  in  whose   address 


MADELINE.  185 

assumed  mildness  could  not  entirely  conquer  native  ferocity, 
"yield  with  a  good  grace,  fair  maiden;  and  it  will  be  well 
for  thee.  Thou  shalt  be  mistress  of  all  around  thee.  As  for 
rescue,  foster  not  a  hope  of  that.  It  is  needless  to  indulge 
in  vain  imaginings.  Make  the  best  of  thy  present  situa- 
tion, and  know  thyself  inevitably  in  my  power.  Nay,  weep 
not ;  thou  must  be  aware,  that  what  thou  refusest  I  can  take ; 
that  thou  art  my  prisoner,  the  bondswoman  of  Jasper  Kemp ; 
that  thy  fate  must  ever  remain  a  mystery;  that  Lord  Duffus 
is  dead;  and  that  of  this  castle  and  these  demesnes  I  am  sole 
master.  Think  not  that  the  force  of  man,  or  the  fear  of  man, 
can  ever  compel  me  to  deliver  up  them  or  thee  ;  for  against 
the  king  and  the  might  of  his  kingdom  I  could  hold  them 
with  bloodshed  and  battle  to  my  opponents  for  a  year  and  a 
day.— Consider  then  well,  fair  lady.  Yet  would  I  compel 
thee  not :  give  me  a  ray  of  hope — say  that  thou  wilt  be  mine, 
be  it  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  or  the  day  after  that ;  and  all  I 
ask  of  thee  now  is,  the  delight  of  pressing  that  fair  soft  hand 
to  my  rude  lips." 

A  faint  female  shriek  ascended  as  the  ruffian  approached. 
"  Advance  not  another  step !  or,  behold,  I  plunge  this  dagger 
into  my  bosom!"  cried  a  female  voice,  suffocating  in  the 
agony  of  indignation  and  terror.  "  Know  that  I  am  prepared 
for  the  worst;  and  if  you  do  not  desist  from  your  purpose, 
and  on  the  instant  leave  this  chamber,  into  which  you  have 
brutally  intruded  on  a  defenceless  woman,  I  hold  unsheathed 
in  my  hand  the  instrument,  which  shall  dye  the  rushes  of  its 
floor  with  my  heart's  blood!" 

"He!  he!  Lady  Madeline,"  sneered  the  bandit,  "I  know 
thy  pretty  secret.  Shall  I  send  for  De  Campbell  to  comfort 
thee?" 

The  listener  could  no  more:  the  door  was  impetuously 
burst  open,  and,  armed  cap-a-pie,  De  Campbell  stood,  spectre- 
like, before  his  panic-struck  adversary.  "Wretch!"  he 
cried,  "I  need  not  to  be  sent  for;  lo,  Heaven  hath  waited 

16- 


186  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

me  hither  to  defend  innocence   and  to  punish  guilt!     Take, 
then,  the  reward  due  to  your  atrocities!" 

Kemp  quivered  through  all  the  fibres  of  his  gigantic  frame, 
and  gnashed  his  teeth  in  rage,  as,  grasping  round  for  his 
weapon,  he  felt  himself  unarmed ;  but,  with  the  presence  of 
mind  for  which  he  was  ever  remarkable,  he  touched  a  spring 
in  the  paneling,  and  instantly  disappeared,  the  blow  of  De 
Campbell  falling  on  the  half-closed  door,  through  which  the 
freebooter  had  eluded  him. 

All  was  at  once  uproar  and  alarm.  Bells  rang,  voices 
shouted,  and  the  jangle  of  armor  resounded  above  and  be- 
low, while  the  party  of  De  Campbell  rushed  pell-mell  into  the 
castle,  and,  barricading  the  entrances  to  the  hall,  effectually 
prevented  the  revelers  from  assisting  their  master  in  the  de- 
fence of  the  place.  Confused  and  terror-struck,  Kemp  soon 
found  that  matters  had  come  to  a  desperate  pass ;  and,  igno- 
rant of  the  extent  of  force  brought  against  him,  he  judged  it 
best  to  attempt  escape  with  a  few  collected  followers:  a  plan 
which  he  could  not  have  effected,  but  from  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  localities.  De  Campbell,  on  the  other  hand, 
equally  ignorant  as  to  the  real  state  of  matters,  and  well  aware 
of  the  intrepidity  of  the  opponent  whom  he  had  so  fortuitously 
and  unexpectedly  surprised,  judged  it  best,  for  the  safety  of 
his  lovely  and  beloved  charge,  to  make  every  preparation  for 
departure  by  the  earliest  light  of  morning. 

The  surprise,  the  joy,  the  rapture,  of  the  Lady  Madeline, 
on  being  so  providentially  rescued  from  the  jaws  of  destruc- 
tion, at  such  a  critical  juncture,  and  by  him  in  whom  her 
whole  happiness  on  earth  was  centred,  cannot  be  expressed. 
Her  blood-forsaken  cheek  now  glowed  with  a  crimson  be- 
yond the  most  delicate  tints  of  the  carnation,  and  her  faded 
eye  kindled  with  an  eloquent  lustre,  whose  silence  spoke  the 
depth  of  her  gratitude  and  affection.  She  would  have  thrown 
herself  at  his  feet— but  at  her  feet  he  knelt,  and  raising  her 
hand  to  his  lips,  he  declared  that  even  his  life-blood  had  been 


MADELINE.  187 

cheerfully  poured  in  attempting  her  deliverance  ;  and  that, 
while  his  cuirass  wore  her  badge,  his  arm  should  ever  be 
ready  to  wield  a  sword  in  her  service. 

The  reveling  and  riotous  banditti  having  been  secured, 
and  the  castle  left  in  the  keeping  of  Ramage,  De  Campbell's 
lieutenant,  scarcely  had  the  sun,  rising  from  the  great  Ger- 
man Ocean,  purpled  the  eastern  heavens  above  the  Bass  and 
May  islands,  when  the  horses,  saddled  and  caparisoned,  were 
led  out  before  the  gate  leading  into  the  court,  and  Lady  Made- 
line de  Rothsay,  escorted  by  her  deliverer  and  his  gallant 
train,  set  out  towards  Dunfermline.  All  were  armed  and  on 
the  look-out;  for,  until  gaining  the  champaign,  they  were  not 
without  suspicion  of  an  attack  by  Kemp  and  his  infuriated 
gang.  Well  it  was  for  them  that  they  kept  as  much  aloof 
as  the  paths  admitted  from  the  wooded  overhanging  rocks, 
and  from  the  narrow  defiles,  where  they  were  most  liable  to 
be  stopped  or  overwhelmed :  for,  with  a  falcon  eye,  the  bandit 
had  tracked  their  route ;  and,  on  approaching  the  ford  of  the 
Devon,  his  well-known  and  far-feared  trumpet-call  was 
heard.  It  sounded  before,  and  was  answered  from  behind ; 
and,  as  the  troop  of  De  Campbell  paused  to  listen,  the  tramp- 
ling of  approaching  horses  was  heard  amid  the  adjoining 
copse  woods. 

The  time  called  for  instant  decision.  "On! — on! — let  us 
onwards!"  cried  the  young  knight,  spurring  his  charger  to 
the  gallop,  and  seizing  the  rein  of  Lady  Madeline's  palfrey. 
"Our  only  safety  is  in  pushing  onwards  to  Dunfermline, 
through  the  opposers  in  front.  To  halt  is  to  be  surrounded — 
delay  is  destruction;  then  onwards,  onwards,  my  merry  men! 
Balfour,"  said  he,  turning  round  to  one  of  his  trustiest  fol- 
lowers, while  bidding  his  fair  ward  be  of  good  cheer,  he 
handed  to  him  the  rein  of  Lady  Madeline's  palfrey — "Bal- 
four, to  thee  I  commend  the  safeguard  of  this  lady;  and  see 
that  thou  act  as  becomes  a  Scottish  soldier,  to  whom  a  pre- 
cious charge  is  committed."     Then,  addressing:  his  train,  he 


188  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

added — "Let  us  keep  around  her,  my  gallants,  till  we  have 
wedged  our  way  through  yonder  caitiffs  ;  and  while  we  face 
round  and  hold  thern  at  bay,  do  thou,  Balfour,  with  an  escort, 
hurry  on  thy  journey,  and  Heaven  grant  that  thou  deliver  up 
thy  charge  in  safety!" 

Just  as  he  had  finished  these  words,  and  the  horses  were 
put  to  a  hand  gallop,  an  armed  troop  appeared  guarding  the 
ford  on  the  hither  side  of  the  Devon ;  and  in  the  centre  rode 
the  redoubted  Kemp  himself,  conspicuous  by  his  gigantic 
size  and  the  lofty  plume  of  his  helmet.  Everything  was  now 
at  stake,  and  De  Campbell  shrank  not  from  the  encounter, 
as,  putting  his  spear  in  rest,  he  bore  full  on  in  the  teeth  of 
his  formidable  antagonist.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eyelash 
both  parties  had  closed  in  deadly  combat,  men  and  horses 
were  overthrown,  blows  rang  on  cuirass  and  casque,  and  the 
life-blood  flowed  from  many  a  gallant  heart.  Balfour,  with 
Lady  Madeline,  was  at  first  necessitated  to  fall  back  into  the 
rear,  from  the  imminent  danger  of  forcing  a  passage  through 
a  strait  so  completely  blockaded  ;  but,  alive  to  the  import- 
ance and  honor  of  his  trust,  he  watched  his  opportunity  when 
the  contest  was  hottest,  and,  seizing  the  reins  of  the  alarmed 
palfrey,  clove  down  the  only  bandit  who  endeavored  to  bar 
his  path,  plunged  into  the  water,  and  gained  the  opposite 
bank.  He  then  threw  aside  his  heavy  armor,  put  spurs  to 
his  horse,  and  carried  his  fair  and  fainting  charge  triumph- 
antly beyond  the  din  of  conflict  and  the  reach  of  her  pursuers. 

Having  calculated  on  a  deep  and  easy  revenge,  Kemp 
became  completely  infuriated  at  the  resistance  he  had  so 
unexpectedly  encountered ;  but  when  he  perceived  the  escape 
of  his  beautiful  captive — the  tender  being  towards  whom  his 
own  rude  feelings  seemed  to  have  been  so  unaccountably 
attracted — his  self-possession  entirely  forsook  him,  and  he 
rushed  headlong  on  De  Campbell,  to  sacrifice  him  to  his 
frenzy.  As  is  customary  in  cases  of  over-excitement,  he 
overshot  the  mark;  and  De  Campbell,  though  much  his  in- 


MADELINE.  189 

ferior  in  mere  brute  strength,  had  by  far  the  vantage-ground 
of  him  in  science  and  coolness.  For  a  while  he  contented 
himself  in  parrying  the  savage  thrusts  of  his  assailant,  and, 
when  the  exhausting  vigor  of  the  monster  gave  him  some 
chance  of  success,  he  rushed  at  him  full  tilt,  and  with  a  tre- 
mendous blow  of  his  battle-axe  smote  him  from  his  horse  into 
the  river.  With  a  gurgling  groan  the  ponderous  corse  sank 
in  the  still  deep  waters  under  the  projecting  hazel-bank,  and 
the  spot  of  the  Devon,  which  was  the  scene  of  this  sanguinary 
achievement,  is  called  "Kemp's  Pool"  to  this  day. 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  add  that,  immediately  on  the 
death  of  their  commander,  the  followers  of  the  bandit  were 
discomfited,  and  made  but  a  feeble  resistance.  A  consider- 
able number  were  already  wounded  or  slain,  and  the  remain- 
der, finding  opposition  unavailing  and  success  without  an 
aim,  threw  down  their  arms  and  betook  themselves  to  flight. 
Meanwhile,  faithful  to  his  trust,  Balfour  had  carried  his  lovely 
charge  in  safety  to  Dunfermline,  where  she  was  received  with 
ecstasy  by  her  despairing  friends ;  and  when  De  Campbell 
arrived — oh,  may  true  love  be  ever  so  rewarded!— he  was 
waited  upon  by  the  Duke  of  Rothsay,  who,  grateful  beyond 
the  reach  of  unmeaning  family  pride,  or  the  power  of  words, 
for  the  recovery  of  his  lovely  and  beloved  child,  quenched 
the  remembrance  of  former  differences,  and  generously  gave 
his  sanction  to  her  union  with  her  deliverer. 

The  king  was  himself  present  at  the  ceremony,  which  in  a 
brief  space  followed  at  the  Chapel  Royal;  and,  on  giving 
away  Lady  Madeline  de  Rothsay,  he  said  to  the  bridegroom 
—"The  life  of  this  fair  lady  you  have  gallantly  preserved; 
and  my  friend  the  duke  has  acted  but  with  justice,  in  bidding 
you  be  blessed  together.  As  her  dower,  accept  from  me  the 
Castle  of  Gloom  and  its  domains,  the  usurped  property  of  the 
sanguinary  monster  from  whom  you  have  freed  my  kingdom. 
Lady,  that  castle  was  the  scene  of  your  miseries.  Sir  knight, 
that  castle  was  the  scene  of  your  gallantry.     To  both,  be  it 


190  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

the  scene  of  the  felicities,  which,  I  pray  Heaven  to  shower 
down  bounteously  on  your  heads!  Let  guilt  and  gloom  abide 
in  its  halls  no  more;  but,  in  remembrance  of  the  beauty  that 
adorns  and  the  valor  that  won  it,  be  it  henceforth  and  forever 
known  by  the  appellation  of  Castle  Campbell." 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

When  the  knell,  rung  for  the  dying, 

Soundeth  for  me, 
And  my  corse  coldly  is  lying 

'Neath  the  green  tree ; 
When  the  turf  strangers  are  heaping, 

Covers  my  breast, 
Come  not  to  gaze  on  me  weeping ; — 

I  am  at  rest ! 

All  my  life,  coldly  and  sadly 

The  days  have  gone  by ; 
I,  who  dream'd  wildly  and  madly, 

Am  happy  to  die. 
Dear  friend,  my  heart  hath  been  breaking, 

Its  pain  is  all  past ; 
A  term  hath  been  set  to  its  aching, — 

Peace  comes  at  last! 


THE  FISHERMAN  OF  SCARPHOUT 

TWO  CHAPTERS  FROM  AN  OLD  HISTORY. 

BT    G.  P.  H.  JAMES,  ESQ.. 

Author  of ';  Richelieu,"  "  Gipsy,"  &c.  &c. 

CHAPTER  I. 

About  midway  between  Ostend  and  Sluys,  exposed  to 
all  the  fitful  wrath  of  the  North  Sea,  lies  a  long  tract  of 
desolate  shore,  frowning  no  fierce  defiance  back  upon  the 
waves  that  dash  in  fury  against  it ;  but — like  a  calm  and  even 
spirit,  which  repels  by  its  very  tranquil  humility  the  heat  of 
passion  and  the  overbearing  of  pride — opposing  naught  to 
the  angry  billows,  but  a  soft  and  lowly  line  of  yellow  sands. 
There  nothing  grows  which  can  add  comfort  to  existence ; 
there  nothing  flourishes  which  can  beautify  or  adorn.  Torn 
from  the  depths  of  ocean,  and  cast  by  the  storm  upon  the 
shore,  sea  shells,  and  variegated  weeds  will,  indeed,  some- 
times deck  the  barren  beach,  and  now  and  then  a  green 
shrub,  or  a  stunted  yellow  flower,  wreathing  its  roots  amidst 
the  shifting  sand,  will  here  and  there  appear  upon  the  low  hills 
called  Dimes.  But  with  these  exceptions,  all  is  waste  and 
bare,  possessing  alone  that  portion  of  the  sublime  which  is 
derived  from  extent  and  desolation.  It  may  be  well  con- 
ceived that  the  inhabitants  of  such  a  spot  are  few.  Two 
small  villages,  and  half  a  dozen  isolated  cottages  are  the 


192  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

only  vestiges  of  human  habitation  to  be  met  with  in  the 
course  of  many  a  mile ;  and  at  the  time  to  which  this  tale 
refers,  these  few  dwellings  were  still  fewer.  That  time  was 
long,  long  ago,  at  a  period  when  another  state  of  society 
existed  in  Europe;  and  when  one  class  of  men  were  sepa- 
rated from  another  by  barriers  which  time,  the  great  grave- 
digger  of  all  things,  has  now  buried  beneath  the  dust  of  other 
years.  Nevertheless,  the  inhabitants  of  that  tract  of  sandy 
country  were  less  different  in  habits,  manners,  and  even  ap- 
pearance from  those  who  tenant  it  at  present,  than  might  be 
imagined;  and  in  original  character  were  very  much  the 
same,  combining  in  their  disposition  traits  resembling  the 
shore  on  which  their  habitations  stood,  and  the  element  by 
the  side  of  which  they  lived — simple,  unpolished,  yet  gentle 
and  humble,  and  at  the  same  time  wild,  fearless,  and  rash  as 
the  stormy- sea  itself. 

I  speak  of  seven  centuries  ago — a  long  time,  indeed!  but 
nevertheless  then,  even  then,  there  were  as  warm  affections 
stirring  in  the  world,  as  bright  domestic  love,  as  glad  hopes 
and  chilling  fears  as  now — there  were  all  the  ties  of  home 
and  kindred,  as  dearly  felt,  as  fondly  cherished,  as  boldly 
defended  as  they  can  be  in  the  present  day;  and  out  upon 
the  dull  imagination  and  cold  heart  that  cannot  feel  the  link 
of  human  sympathy  binding  us  to  our  fellow  beings  even  of 
the  days  gone  by! 

Upon  a  dull,  cold  melancholy  evening,  in  the  end  of 
autumn,  one  of  the  fishermen  of  the  shore  near  Scarphout 
gazed  over  the  gray  sea  as  it  lay  before  his  eye,  rolling  in, 
with  one  dense  line  of  foaming  waves  pouring  for  ever  over 
the  other.  The  sky  was  bleak  and  heavy,  covered  with 
clouds  of  a  mottled  leaden  hue,  growing  darker  towards  the 
north-west,  and  the  gusty  whistling  of  the  rising  wind  told  of 
the  coming  storm.  The  fisherman  himself  was  a  tall,  gaunt 
man,  with  hair  of  a  grizzled  black,  strongly  marked,  but  not 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  193 

unpleasant  features,  and  many  a  long  furrow  across  his  broad, 
high  brow. 

The  spot  on  which  he  stood  was  a  small  sandhill  on  the 
little  bay  formed  by  a  projecting  ridge  of  Dunes,  at  the  ex- 
treme of  which  stood  the  old  castle  of  Scarphout,  even  then 
in  ruins,  and  at  the  time  of  high  tide  separated  from  the  land 
by  the  encroaching  waves,  but  soon  destined  to  be  swept 
away  altogether,  leaving  nothing  but  a  crumbling  tower  here 
and  there  rising  above  the  waters.  Moored  in  the  most  shel- 
tered part  of  the  bay,  before  his  eyes,  were  his  two  boats; 
and  behind  him,  underneath  the  sand  hills  that  ran  out  to  the 
old  castle,  was  the  cottage  in  which  he  and  his  family  had 
dwelt  for  ten  years. 

He  stood  and  gazed;  and  then  turning  to  a  boy  dressed 
in  the  same  uncouth  garments  as  himself,  he  said,  "  No, 
Peterkin,  no!  There  will  be  a  storm — I  will  not  go  to-night. 
Go,  tell  your  father  and  the  other  men  I  will  not  go.  I  ex- 
pect my  son  home  from  Tournay,  and  I  will  not  go  out  on  a 
stormy  night  when  he  is  coming  back  after  a  long  absence." 
The  boy  ran  away  along  the  shore  to  some  still  lower  cot- 
tages, which  could  just  be  seen  at  the  opposite  point,  about 
two  miles  off;  and  the  fisherman  turned  towards  his  own 
dwelling  Four  rooms  were  all  that  it  contained ;  and  the 
door  which  opened  on  the  sands  led  into  the  first  of  these: 
but  the  chamber  was  clean  and  neat;  everything  within  it 
showed  care  and  extreme  attention  ;  the  brazen  vessels  above 
the  wide  chimney,  the  pottery  upon  the  shelves,  all  bore  evi- 
dence of  good  housewifery ;  and  as  the  fisherman  of  Scarphout 
entered  his  humble  abode,  the  warm  blaze  of  the  fire,  and  the 
light  of  the  resin  candles,  welcomed  him  to  as  clean  an  apart- 
ment as  could  be  found  in  the  palace  of  princes.  He  looked 
round  it  with  a  proud  and  satisfied  smile;  and  the  arms  of 
his  daughter,  a  lovely  girl  of  fourteen,  were  round  his  neck 
in  a  moment,  while  she  exclaimed  in  a  glad  tone,  speaking 
17 


194  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

to  her  mother  who  was  busy  in  the  room  beyond,  "  Oh,  mo- 
ther, he  will  not  go  out  to  sea  to-night!" 

Her  mother,  who  had  once  been  very  beautiful — nay,  was 
so  still — came  forth,  and  greeted  her  husband  with  a  calm 
glad  kiss;  and  sitting  down,  the  father  pulled  off  his  heavy 
boots,  and  warmed  his  strong  hands  over  the  cheerful  blaze. 

The  wind  whistled  louder  and  louder  still,  the  sea  moaned 
as  if  tormented  by  the  demon  of  the  storm,  and  few,  but  dash- 
ing drops  of  heavy  rain,  came  upon  the  blast,  and  rattled  on 
the  casements  of  the  cottage. 

"It  will  be  a  fearful  night!"  said  the  fisherman,  speaking 
to  his  daughter.  "  Emeline,  give  me  the  book,  and  we  will 
read  the  prayer  for  those  that  wander  in  the  tempest." 

His  daughter  turned  to  one  of  the  wooden  shelves;  and 
from  behind  some  very  homely  articles  of  kitchen  furniture, 
brought  forth  one  of  the  splendid  books  of  the  Romish  church, 
from  which  her  father  read  forth  a  prayer,  while  mother  and 
daughter  knelt  beside  him. 

Higher  still  grew  the  storm  as  the  night  came  on ;  more 
frequent  and  more  fierce  were  the  howling  gusts  of  wind  ; 
and  the  wTaves  of  the  stirred-up  ocean,  cast  in  thunder  upon 
the  shore,  seemed  to  shake  the  lowly  cottage  as  if  they  would 
fain  have  swept  it  from  the  earth.  Busily  did  Dame  Alice, 
the  fisherman's  wife,  trim  the  wood  fire ;  eagerly  and  carefully 
did  she  prepare  the  supper  for  her  husband  and  her  expected 
son  ;  and  often  did  Emeline  listen  to  hear  if,  in  the  lulled 
intervals  of  the  storm,  she  could  catch  the  sound  of  coming 
steps. 

At  length,  when  the  rushing  of  the  wind  and  wraves  seemed 
at  their  highest,  there  came  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door,  and 
the  fisherman  started  up  to  open  it,  exclaiming,  "It  is  my 
son!"  He  threw  it  wide;  but  the  moment  he  had  done  so, 
he  started  back,  exclaiming,  "Who  are  you?"  and  pale  as 
ashes,  drenched  with  rain,  and  haggard,  as  if  with  terror  and 
fatigue,  staggered  in  a  man  as  old  as  the  fisherman  himself, 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  195 

bearing  in  his  arms  what  seemed  the  lifeless  body  of  a  young 
and  lovely  woman.  The  apparel  of  either  stranger  had,  at 
one  time,  cost  far  more  than  the  worth  of  the  fisherman's  cot- 
tage and  all  that  it  contained ;  but  now,  that  apparel  was  rent 
and  soiled,  and  upon  that  of  the  man  were  evident  traces  of 
blood  and  strife.  Motioning  eagerly  to  shut  the  door — as 
soon  as  it  was  done,  he  set  his  fair  burden  on  one  of  the  low 
settles,  and  besought  for  her  the  aid  of  the  two  women  whom 
he  beheld.  It  was  given  immediately ;  and  although  an  air 
of  surprise,  and  a  look  for  a  moment  even  fierce,  had  come 
over  the  fisherman's  countenance  on  the  first  intrusion  of 
strangers  into  his  cottage,  that  look  had  now  passed  away  ; 
and,  taking  the  fair  girl,  who  lay  senseless  before  him,  in  his 
strong;  arms,  he  bore  her  into  an  inner  chamber,  and  placed 
her  on  his  wife's  own  bed.  The  women  remained  with  her; 
and  closing  the  door,  the  fisherman  returned  to  his  unexpected 
guest,  demanding  abruptly,  "Who  is  that?" 

The  stranger  crossed  his  question  by  another — "  Are  you 
Walran,  the  fisherman  of  Scarphout?"  he  demanded,  "and 
will  you  plight  your  oath  not  to  betray  me?" 

"I  am  Walran,"  replied  the  fisherman,  "  and  I  do  plight 

my  oath." 

"  Then  that  is  the  daughter  of  Charles,  Count  of  Flanders !" 

replied  the  stranger.     "I  have  saved  her  at  the  risk  of  my 

life  from  the  assassins  of  her  father!" 

"The  assassins  of  her  father!"  cried  the  fisherman.    "Then 

is  he  dead?" 

"He   was   slain  yesterday   in  the    church  —  in  the   very 

church  itself  at  Bruges!     Happily  his  son  was  absent,  and 

his   daughter  is  saved,  at  least  if  you  will  lend  us  that  aid 

which  a  young  man,  who  is  even  now  engaged  in  misleading 

our  pursuers,  promised  in  your  name." 

"My  son!"    said   the    fisherman.     "His   promise    shall 

bind  his  father  as  if  it  were  my  own.     But  tell  me,  who  are 

you  ?" 


196  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

"I  am  Baldwin,  Lord  of  Wavrin,"  replied  the  stranger. 
"But  we  have  no  time  for  long  conferences,  good  fisherman. 
A  party  of  assassins  are  triumphant  in  Flanders.  The  count 
is  slain;  his  son,  a  youth,  yet  unable  to  recover  or  defend  his 
own  without  aid:  his  daughter  is  here,  pursued  by  the  mur- 
derers of  her  father;  she  cannot  be  long  concealed,  and  this 
night — this  very  night,  I  must  find  means  to  bear  her  to  the 
shores  of  France,  so  that  I  may  place  her  in  safety;  and,  as 
a  faithful  friend  of  my  dead  sovereign,  obtain  the  means  of 
snatching  his  son's  inheritance  from  the  hands  of  his  enemies, 
ere  their  power  be  confirmed  beyond  remedy.  Will  you  ven- 
ture to  bear  us  out  to  sea  in  your  boat,  and  win  a  reward  such 
as  a  fisherman  can  seldom  gain?" 

"The  storm  is  loud!"  said  the  fisherman;  "the  wind  is 
cold ;  and  ere  you  reach  the  coast  of  France,  that  fair  flower 
would  be  withered  never  to  revive  a^ain.  You  must  leave 
her  here." 

"  But  she  will  be  discovered  and  slain  by  the  murderers  of 
her  father,"  replied  Baldwin.  "  What,  are  you  a  man  and  a 
seaman,  and  fear  to  dare  the  storm  for  such  an  object?" 

"I  fear  nothing,"  answered  the  fisherman,  calmly.  "But 
here  is  my  son!  Albert,  God's  benison  be  upon  you,  my 
boy,"  he  added,  as  a  young  man  entered  the  cotlage,  with 
the  dark  curls  of  his  jetty  hair  dripping  with  the  night  rain. 
"  Welcome  back!  but  you  come  in  an  hour  of  trouble.  Cast 
the  great  bar  across  the  door,  and  let  no  one  enter,  while  I 
show  this  stranger  a  refuge  he  knows  not." 

"No  one  shall  enter  living,"  said  the  young  man,  after 
returning  his  father's  first  embrace:  and  the  fisherman,  taking- 
one  of  the  resin  lights  from  the  table,  passed  through  the 
room  where  the  fair  unhappy  Marguerite  of  Flanders  lay, 
recovering  from  the  swoon  into  which  she  had  fallen,  to  a 
recollection  of  all  that  was  painful  in  existence.  "Should 
they  attempt  to  force  the  door,"  whispered  the  fisherman  to 
his  wife,  "  bring  her  quick  after  me,  and  bid  Albert  and 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  197 

Emiline  follow."  And  striding  on  with  the  Lord  of  Wavrin, 
into  the  room  beyond,  he  gave  his  guest  the  light,  while 
he  advanced  towards  the  wall  which  ended  the  building  on 
that  side.  It  had  formed  part  of  some  old  tenement,  most 
probably  a  monastery,  which  had  long  ago  occupied  the  spot, 
when  a  little  town,  now  no  longer  existing,  had  been  gather*" I 
together  at  the  neck  of  the  promontory  on  which  the  fort  oi 
Scarphout  stood. 

This  one  wall  was  all  that  remained  of  the  former  habita- 
tions ;  and  against  it  the  cottage  was  built ;  though  the  huge 
stones  of  which  it  was  composed  were  but  little  in  harmony 
with  the  rest  of  the  low  building.  To  it,  however,  the  fisher- 
man advanced,  and  placing  his  shoulder  against  one  of  the 
enormous  stones,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  stranger  it  moved 
round  upon  a  pivot  in  the  wall,  showing  the  top  of  a  small 
staircase,  leading  down  apparently  into  the  ground.  A  few 
words  sufficed  to  tell  that  that  staircase  led,  by  a  passage 
under  the  narrow  neck  of  sandhills,  to  the  old  castle  beyond ; 
and  that  in  that  old  castle  was  still  one  room  habitable, 
though  unknown  to  any  but  the  fisherman  himself.  "Here, 
then,  let  the  lady  stay,"  he  said,  "  guarded,  fed,  and  tended 
by  my  wife  and  children ;  and  for  you  and  me,  let  us  put  to 
.  I  will  bring  you  safe  to  Boulogne,  if  I  sleep  not  with 
you  beneath  the  waves;  and  there,  from  the  King  of  France, 
you  may  gain  aid  to   re-establish  rightful    rule  within  the 

land."  ' 

"  To  Boulogne,"  said  the  stranger,  "  to  Boulogne  ?  Nay, 
let  us  pause  at  Bergues  or  Calais,  for  I  am  not  loved  in 
Boulogne.  I  once,"  he  added  boldly,  seeing  some  astonish- 
ment in  the  fisherman's  countenance,  "I  once  wronged  the 
former  Count  of  Boulogne — I  scruple  not  to  say  it — I  did  him 
wrong;  and  though  he  has  been  dead  for  years,  yet  his 
people  love  me  not,  and  I  have  had  warning  to  avoid  their 
dwellings." 

"And  do  you  think  the  love  or  hate  of  ordinary  people  cau 

17* 


198  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

outlive  long  years?"  demanded  the  fisherman;  "but,  never- 
theless, let  us  to  Boulogne;  for  there  is  even  now  the  King 
of  France  :  so  said  a  traveler  who  landed  here  the  other  day. 
And  the  king,  wrho  is  come,  they  say,  to  judge  upon  the  spot 
who  shall  inherit  the  long  vacant  county  of  Boulogne,  will 
give  you  protection  against  your  enemies,  and  aid  to  restore 
your  sovereign's  son  to  his  rightful  inheritance." 

The  Lord  of  Wavrin  mused  for  a  moment,  but  consented, 
and    all    was    speedily  arranged.     The    fair   Marguerite  of 
Flanders,  roused  and  cheered  by  the  care  of  the  fisherman's 
family,  gladly  took  advantage  of  the  refuge  offered  her,  and 
found  no  terrors  in  the  long  damp  vaults  or  ponderous  stone 
door  that  hid  her  from  the  world ;  and  feeling  that  she  herself 
was  now  in  safety,  she  scarcely  looked  round  the  apartment 
to  which  she  was  led,  but  gave  herself  up  to  the  thoughts  of 
her  father's  bloody  death,  her  brother's  situation  of  peril,  and 
all  the  dangers  that  lay  before  the  faithful  friend  who,  with  a 
father's  tenderness,  had   guided  her  safely  from  the  house  of 
murder  and  desolation.     He,  on  his  part,  saw  the  heavy  stone 
door  roll  slowly  to  after  the  princess,  and  ascertaining  that  an 
iron  bolt  within  gave  her  the  means  of  securing  her  retreat, 
at  least  in  a  degree,  he  left  her,  with  a  mind  comparatively 
tranquillized  in  regard  to  her,  and  followed   the   fisherman 
towards  the  beach.     There  was  found  already  the  boat  pre- 
pared, with  its  prow  towards  the  surf,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
fisherman's  hardy  companions   ready  to   share  his   danger. 
The  Lord  of  Wavrin  looked  up  to  the  dark  and  starless  sky ; 
he  felt  the  rude  wind  push  roughly  against  his  broad  chest ; 
he  heard  the  billows  fall  in  thunder  upon  the  sandy  shore ; 
but  he  thought  of  his  murdered  sovereign,  and  of  that  sove- 
reign's helpless  orphans,  and   springing  into  the  frail  bark, 
he  bade  them  push  off,  though  he  felt  that  there  was  many  a 
chance    those   words    might    be  the   signals  for  his  death. 
Watching  till  the  wave   had   broken,  the   three  strong   men 
pushed  the  boat  through  the  yielding  sand;  the  next  instant 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  199 

she  floated ;  they  leaped  in,  and  struggling  for  a  moment 
with  the  coming  wave,  the  bark  bounded  out  into  the  sea, 
and  was  lost  to  the  sight  of  those  that  watched  her  from  the 
shore. 


CHAPTER  II. 

There  were  tears  in  the  blue  eye  of  the  morning,  but  they 
were  like  the  tears  of  a  spoiled  beauty  when  her  momentary 
anger  has  gained  all  she  wishes,  and  the  passionate  drops 
begin  to  be  checkered  by  smiles  not  less  wayward.  Gradu- 
ally, however,  the  smiles  predominated ;  the  clouds  grew  less 
frequent  and  less  heavy,  the  sun  shone  out  with  shorter 
intervals,  and  though  the  wind  and  the  sea  still  sobbed  and 
heaved  with  the  past  storm,  the  sky  was  momently  becoming 
more  and  more  serene.  Such  was  the  aspect  of  the  coming 
day,  when  the  unhappy  Marguerite  of  Flanders  again  opened 
her  eyes,  after  having  for  a  time  forgotten  her  sorrow  in  but 
too  brief  repose.  For  a  moment  she  doubted  whether  the 
past  were  not  all  a  dream ;  but  the  aspect  of  the  chamber  in 
which  she  now  found  herself,  very  different  from  that  which 
she  had  inhabited  in  her  father's  palace,  soon  recalled  the 
sad  reality.  And  yet  as  she  gazed  round  the  room,  there 
was  nothing  rude  or  coarse  in  its  appearance.  Rich  tapestry 
was  still  upon  the  walls  ;  the  dressoir  was  still  covered  with 
fine  linen  and  purple,  and  many  a  silver  vessel — laver,  and 
ewer,  and  cup,  stood  ready  for  her  toilet.  The  small  grated 
windows,  with  the  enormous  walls  in  which  they  were  set, 
the  faded  colors  of  the  velvet  hangings  of  the  bed  in  which 
she  had  been  sleeping,  the  vaulted  roof,  showing  no  carved 
and  gilded  oak,  but  the  cold,  bare  stone,  told  that  she  was 
in  the  chamber  of  a  lone  and  ruined  fortress;  but  one  that 
less  than  a  century  before  had  contained  persons  in  whose 
veins  flowed  the  same  blood  that  wandered  through  her  own. 
Rising,  she  gazed  out  of  the  window,  which  looked  upon  the 


200  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

wide  and  rushing  sea,  and  she  thought  of  the  good  old  Lord 
of  Wavrin  and  his  dangerous  voyage ;  and,  like  the  figures 
in  a  delirious  dream,  the  forms  of  the  old  fisherman,  and  his 
beautiful  daughter,  and  fair  wife,  and  handsome,  dark-eyed 
son  came  back  upon  her  memory.  A  slight  knock  at  the 
door  roused  her;  but  her  whole  nerves  had  been  so  shaken 
with  terror  that  she  hardly  dared  to  bid  the  stranger  enter. 
At  length,  however,  she  summoned  courage  to  do  so,  and  the 
fair  and  smiling  face  of  Emiline,  the  fisherman's  daughter, 
appeared  behind  the  opening  door.  Torn  from  the  fond,  ac- 
customed things  of  early  days,  left  lone  and  desolate  in  a 
wild  and  unattractive  spot,  surrounded  by  dangers,  and  for 
the  first  time  exposed  to  adversity,  the  heart  of  Marguerite 
of  Flanders  was  but  too  well  disposed  to  cling  to  whatever 
presented  itself  for  affection.  Emiline  she  found  kind  and 
gentle,  but  though  younger,  of  a  firmer  mood  than  herself, 
having  been  brought  up  in  a  severer  school ;  and  to  her  Mar- 
guerite soon  learned  to  cling.  But  there  was  another  com- 
panion whom  fate  cast  in  her  way,  from  whom  she  could  not 
withhold  the  same  natural  attachment,  though  but  too  likely 
to  prove  dangerous  to  her  peace.  Morning  and  evening, 
every  day,  Albert,  the  fisherman's  son,  who  had  been  left 
behind  by  his  father  to  afford  that  protection  which  none  but 
a  man  could  give,  visited  her  retreat  in  the  company  of  his 
sister;  and  Marguerite  was  soon  taught  to  long  for  those  visits 
as  the  brightest  hours  of  her  weary  concealment. 

But  in  the  meantime  the  fisherman  returned  no  more. 
Day  passed  after  day;  morning  broke  and  evening  fell,  and 
the  boat  which  had  left  the  shore  of  Scarphout  on  that  event- 
ful evening,  did  not  appear  again.  The  eye  of  the  fisher- 
man's wife  strained  over  the  waters,  and  when  at  eventide 
the  barks  of  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  coast  were  seen 
approaching  the  shore,  his  children  ran  down  to  inquire  for 
their  parent — but  in  vain.  About  the  same  time,  too,  frag- 
ments of  wrecks — masts,  sails,  and  planks,  were  cast  upon 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  201 

the  sands,  and  dark  and  sad  grew  the  brov.'s  of  the  once 
happy  family  at  the  point  of  Scarphout.  The  two  other  men 
whom  he  had  chosen  to  accompany  him  were  unmarried,  but 
their  relations  at  length  gave  up  the  last  hope,  and  the  priest 
of  Notre  Dame  de  Blankenbergh  was  besought  to  say  masses 
for  the  souls  of  the  departed.  The  good  old  man  wept  as  he 
promised  to  comply,  for  though  he  had  seen  courts,  and  lived 
in  the  household  of  a  noble  prince,  he  loved  his  simple  flock, 
and  had  ever  been  much  attached  to  the  worthy  man  whose 
boat  was  missing.  Marguerite  of  Flanders,  with  a  fate  but 
too  intimately  interwoven  with  that  of  the  unfortunate  family 
at  Scarphout,  had  been  made  acquainted  with  the  hopes  and 
fears  of  every  day,  had  mingled  her  tears  with  Emiline,  and 
had  even  clasped  the  hand  of  Albert,  while  she  soothed  him 
with  sympathetic  sorrow  for  his  father's  loss.  "  Mine  is  an 
unhappy  fate,"  she  said,  "  to  bring  sorrowr  and  danger  even 
here,  while  seeking  to  fly  from  it  myself." 

"  Grieve  not,  lady,  in  that  respect,"  replied  Albert,  raising 
her  hand  to  his  lips;  "  we  have  but  done  our  duty  towards 
you,  and  our  hearts  are  not  such  as  to  regret  that  we  have 
done  so,  even  though  we  lose  a  father  by  it.  Neither  fear 
for  your  own  fate.  The  times  must  change  for  better  ones. 
In  the  meanwhile  you  are  in  safety  here,  and  should  need 
be,  I  will  defend  you  with  the  last  drop  of  my  blood." 

The  morning  that  followed,  however,  wore  a  different  as- 
pect. Scarcely  were  matins  over,  when  the  good  old  priest 
himself  visited  the  cottage  of  the  fisherman,  and  proceeded 
to  those  of  his  companions,  spreading  joy  and  hope  where- 
ever  he  came.  What,  it  may  be  asked,  was  the  source  of 
such  joy?  It  was  but  a  vision!  The  old  man  had  dreamt, 
he  said,  that  he  had  seen  the  fisherman  of  Scarphout  safe  and 
well,  with  a  net  in  his  hand,  in  which  were  an  innumerable 
multitude  of  fishes.  And  this  simple  dream  was,  in  that  age, 
sufficient  to  dry  the  eyes  of  mourning  and  bring  back  hope 
to  bosoms  that  had  been  desolate.     Albert  flew  to  communi- 


202  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

cate  the  tale  to  Marguerite  of  Flanders,  and  there  was  spoken 
between  them  many  a  word  of  joy — joy  that  so  often  entwines 
its  arms  with  tenderness.  He  now  came  oftener  than  ever, 
for  the  old  priest  by  some  means  had  learned  that  he  took  an 
interest  in  all  the  changing  fortunes  of  the  state  of  Flanders, 
and  daily  the  good  man  brought  him  tidings,  which  sometimes 
he  felt  it  a  duty,  sometimes  a  pleasure  to  tell  to  the  lonely 
dweller  in  the  ruined  castle.  He  found,  too,  that  his  presence 
cheered  her,  and  that  his  conversation  won  her  from  her  grief. 
She  began  to  cling  even  more  to  him  than  to  his  sister ;  for 
he  knew  more  of  the  world,  and  men,  and  courts  than  Enii- 
line,  and  he  thought  it  but  kind  to  afford  her  every  solace 
and  pleasure  he  could  give.  Each  day  his  visits  became 
more  frequent,  and  continued  longer.  Sometimes  he  would 
liberate  her,  after  a  sort,  from  her  voluntary  prison,  by  taking 
her,  with  Emiline,  in  his  boat  upon  the  moonlight  sea,  or 
even  by  leading  her  along,  under  the  eye  of  Heaven's  queen, 
upon  the  smooth  sands,  when  the  waves  of  a  calm  night 
rippled  up  to  their  feet.  At  other  times  he  would  sit  upon 
the  stones  of  the  old  battlements,  rent  and  rifted  by  the  war- 
fare of  ages,  and  would  wile  her  thoughts  away  from  herself 
by  tales  of  other  days,  wrhen  those  battlements  had  withstood 
the  assault  of  hosts,  and  those  halls  had  been  the  resort  of 
the  fair  and  brave,  now  dust.  Then,  again,  he  would  give 
her  tidings  which  he  had  gained  while  dwelling  at  Namur  or 
at  Tournay  ;  reciting  the  gallant  deeds  of  the  servants  of  the 
Cross  in  distant  Palestine,  or  telling  of  the  horrors  of  captivity 
in  Paynimrie  ;  and  then,  too,  he  would  sing,  as  they  sat 
above  the  waters,  with  a  voice,  and  a  skill,  and  a  taste 
which  Marguerite  fancied  all  unequaled  in  the  world.  Day 
by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  the  fair  inexperienced  princess 
of  Flanders  felt  that  she  was  losing  her  young  heart  to  the 
youth  of  low  degree  ;  and  yet  what  could  she  do  to  stay  the 
fugitive,  or  call  him  back  to  her  own  bosom  from  his  hope- 
less flight.     It  was  not   alone  that  Albert  was,  in  her  eyes 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  203 

at  least,  the  most  handsome  man  she  had  ever  beheld ;  it  was 
not  alone  thai  he  was  gentle,  kind,  and  tender,  but  it  was 
that  on  him  alone  was  she  cast  for  aid,  protection,  amuse- 
ment, information,  hope  ;  that  her  fate  hung  upon  his  word, 
and  that  while  he  seemed  to  feel  and  triumph  in  the  task, 
yet  it  was  with  a  deep,  earnest,  anxious  solicitude  for  her 
peace  and  for  her  security.  And  did  she  think,  that  with 
all  these  feelings  in  her  bosom,  he  had  dared  to  love  her  in 
return — to  love  her,  the  princess  of  that  land  in  which  he 
was  alone,  the  son  of  a  poor  fisherman  ?  She  knew  he  had — 
she  saw  it  in  his  eyes,  she  heard  it  in  every  tone,  she  felt  it 
in  the  tender  touch  of  the  strong  hand  that  aided  her  in  their 
stolen  wanderings.  And  thus  it  went  on  from  day  to  day, 
till  words  were  spoken  that  no  after-thought  could  ever  recall, 
and  Marguerite  owned,  that  if  Heaven  willed  that  her  father's 
lands  should  never  return  to  her  father's  house,  she  could, 
with  a  happy  heart,  see  state  and  dignity  pass  away  from 
her,  and  wed  the  son  of  the  Fisherman  of  Scarphout. 

But  still  the  fisherman  himself  returned  not;  days  had 
grown  into  weeks,  and  weeks  had  become  months,  yet  no 
tidings  of  him  or  his  companions  had  reached  the  shore,  and 
men  began  to  fancy  that  the  vision  of  the  old  priest  might 
be  no  more  than  an  ordinary  dream.  Not  so,  however,  the 
family  of  the  fisherman  himself.  They  seemed  to  hold  the 
judgment  of  the  good  man  infallible,  and  every  day  he  vi- 
sited their  cottage,  bringing  them  tidings  of  all  the  events 
which  took  place  in  the  struggle  that  now  convulsed  the  land. 
By  this  time,  the  King  of  France  had  roused  himself  to 
chastise  the  rebels  of  Flanders,  and  to  reinstate  the  young 
count  in  his  dominions.  He  had  summoned  his  vassals  to 
his  standard,  and  creating  two  experienced  leaders  marshals 
of  his  host,  had  entered  the  disturbed  territory  with  lance  in 
the  rest.  Little  armed  opposition  had  been  made  to  his  pro- 
gress, though  two  or  three  detached  parties  from  his  army 
had  been  cut  off  and  slaughtered.     But  this  only  exasperated 


204  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

the  monarch  still  more,  and  he  had  been  heard  to  vow  that 
nothing  but  the  death  of  every  one  of  the  conspirators  would 
satisfy  him  for  the  blood  of  Charles  the  Good,  and  of  the  faith- 
ful friends  who  had  fallen  with  him.  Such  was  the  tale  told 
by  the  good  priest  to  Albert,  the  fisherman's  son,  one  day 
towards  the  end  of  the  year,  and  by  him  repeated  to  Margue- 
rite of  Flanders,  who  heard  it  with  very  mingled  feelings  ; 
for  if  a  momentary  joy  crossed  her  heart  to  think  that  the 
murderers  of  her  father  would  meet  their  just  reward,  and  her 
brother  would  recover  the  coronet  of  Flanders,  the  fear,  the 
certainty  that  she  herself  would  be  torn  from  him  she  loved, 
overclouded  the  brief  sunshine,  and  left  her  mind  all  dark. 
The  next  day,  however,  new  tidings  reached  Albert,  and 
filled  his  heart  with  consternation  and  surprise.  Burchard, 
the  chief  murderer  of  the  dead  count,  had,  it  was  said,  dis- 
patched a  messenger  to  the  King  of  France,  to  bid  him  either 
hold  off  from  Bruges,  or  send  him  a  free  pardon  for  himself 
and  all  his  companions,  lest  another  victim  should  be  added 
to  those  already  gone  from  the  family  of  the  dead  count.  "  I 
have  in  my  power,"  he  had  added,  "  the  only  daughter  of 
Charles,  called  by  you  the  Good.  I  know  her  retreat — I 
hold  her  as  it  were  in  a  chain,  and  I  shall  keep  her  as  a 
hostage,  whose  blood  shall  flow  if  a  hard  measure  be  dealt  to 
me." 

Albert  fell  into  deep  thought.  Could  it  be  true,  he  asked 
himself,  that  Burchard  had  really  discovered  Marguerite  of 
Flanders  ?  If  so,  it  were  time,  he  thought,  to  fulfil  one  part 
of  his  father's  directions  concerning  her,  at  any  cost  to  him- 
self; and  as  those  directions  had  been,  in  case  danger  me- 
naced her  in  her  retreat,  to  carry  her  to  sea,  and  landing  on 
the  coast  of  France,  to  place  her  in  the  hands  of  the  king  or 
his  representative,  it  may  easily  be  conceived  that  the  exe- 
cution thereof  would  be  not  a  little  painful  to  one  for  whom 
each  hour  of  her  society  was  joy.  The  more  he  pondered, 
however,  the  more  he  felt  that  it  must  be  done  ;  but  for  the 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  205 

last  three  days  four  or  five  strange  sail  had  been  seen  idly 
beating  about  not  far  from  the  coast,  and  Albert  determined, 
in  the  first  instance,  to  ascertain  their  purpose.     With  some 
young  men  from  the  neighbouring  cottages,  he  put  to  sea, 
and  finding  an  easy  excuse  to  approach  one  of  the  large  ves- 
sels which  he   had  beheld,  he   asked,  as  if  accidentally,  to 
whom  they  belonged,  when,  with  consternation  and  anxiety, 
he  heard  that  they  were  the  ships  of  "  Burchard,  Prevot  of  St. 
Donatien."     Returning  at  once  to  the   shore,  he  dismissed 
his  companions  and  sought  his  father's  cottage  ;  but  there  he 
found  that  tidings  had  been  received  that  the  King  of  France 
had  advanced  upon  Bruges,  and  that  Burchard  had  fled  with 
his  troops  ;  but  the  same  report  added,  that  the  rebels,  hotly 
pursued  by  the  chivalry  of  France,  had  directed  their  flight 
towards  the  sea-shore.     Time  pressed — the  moment  of  dan- 
ger was  approaching ;  but  still  great  peril  appeared  in  every 
course  of  action  which   could  be  adopted.     The  escape  by 
sea  was  evidently  cut  off;  the  retreat  of  Marguerite  of  Flan- 
ders was  apparently  discovered  ;  and  if  a  flight  by  land  were 
attempted,  it  seemed  only  likely  to  lead  into  the  power  of  the 
enemy.     With  her,  then,  he  determined  to  consult,  and  pass- 
ing through  the  vaults,  he  was  soon  by  the  side  of  the  fair 
unfortunate  girl,  whose  fate  depended  upon  the  decision  of 
the  next  few  minutes.     He  told  her  all ;  but  to  her  as  well 
as  to  himself,  to  fly  seemed  more  hazardous  than  to  remain. 
The  high  tide  was  coming  up  ;   in  less  than  half  an  hour  the 
castle  would  be  cut  off  from  the  land ;  the  King  of  France 
was  hard  upon  the  track  of  the  enemy,  and  various  events 
might  tend  to  favor  her  there.     "  I  would  rather  die,"  she 
said,  "  than  fall  living  into  their  hands  ;   and  I  can  die  here 
as  well  as  anywhere  else,  dear  Albert." 

"They  shall  passover  my  dead  body  ere  they  reach  you," 
answered  he.     "  Many  a  thing  has  been  done,  Marguerite, 
by  a  single  arm  ;  and  if  I  can  defend  you  till  the  King  ar- 
rives you  are  safe." 
18 


206  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

"  But  arms!"  she  said.     "You  have  no  arms." 

"Oh!  yes,  I  have,"  he  answered.  "  No  one  knows  the 
secrets  of  this  old  castle  but  my  father  and  myself;  and  there 
are  arms  here,  too,  for  those  who  need  them.  Wait  but  a  mo- 
ment and  I  will  return." 

His  absence  was  as  brief  as  might  be  ;  but  when  he  came 
back,  Marguerite  saw  him  armed  with  shield  and  helmet, 
sword  and  battle  axe  ;  but  without  either  haubert  or  coat  of 
mail,  which,  though  they  might  have  guarded  him  from 
wounds,  would  have  deprived  him  of  a  part  of  that  agility 
which  could  alone  enable  one  to  contend  with  many. 

"If  I  could  but  send  Emiline,"  he  said,  as  he  came  up, 
"  to  call  some  of  our  brave  boatmen  from  the  cottages  to  our 
assistance  here,  we  might  set  an  army  at  defiance  for  an 
hour  or  two." 

Marguerite  only  answered,  by  pointing  with  her  hand  to  a 
spot  on  the  distant  sands,  where  a  small  body  of  horsemen, 
perhaps  not  a  hundred,  were  seen  galloping  at  full  speed 
towards  Scarphout.  Albert  saw  that  it  was  too  late  to  call 
further  aid;  and  now  only  turned  to  discover  where  he  could 
best  make  his  defence  in  case  of  need.  There  was  a  large 
massy  wall,  which,  ere  the  sea  had  encroached  upon  the  build- 
ing, ran  completely  round  the  castle,  but  which  now  only 
flanked  one  side  of  the  ruins,  running  out  like  a  jetty  into  the 
waters  which  had  swallowed  up  the  rest.  It  was  raised 
about  twenty  feet  above  the  ground  on  one  side,  and  perhaps 
twenty-five  above  the  sea  on  the  other  ;  and  at  the  top,  be- 
tween the  parapets,  was  a  passage  which  would  hardly  con- 
tain two  men  abreast.  Upon  this  wall,  about  half  way 
between  the  keep  and  the  sea,  was  a  small  projecting  turret, 
and  there  Albert  saw  that  Marguerite  might  find  shelter, 
while,  as  long  as  he  lived,  he  could  defend  the  passage  against 
any  force  coming  from  the  side  of  the  land.  He  told  her  his 
plans ;  and  for  her  only  answer,  she  fell  upon  his  neck  and 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  207 

wept.     But  he  wiped  her  tears  away  with  his  fond  lips,  and 
spoke  words  of  hope  and  comfort. 

"  See  !"  he  said,  "  the  sea  is  already  covering  the  chaussee 
between  us  and  the  land,  and  if  they  do  not  possess  the  se- 
cret of  the  vaults,  they  cannot  reach  us  till  the  tide  falls." 
When  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  shore,  the  body  of  horsemen 
were  within  a  mile  of  the  castle  ;  but  then,  with  joy  inex- 
pressible, he  beheld  upon  the  edge  of  the  sand-hills,  scarcely 
two  miles  behind  them,  a  larger  force  hurrying  on  as  if  in 
pursuit  with  banner  and  pennon  and  standard  displayed, 
and  lance  beyond  lance  bristling  up  against  the  sky. 

"  The  King  of  France  !  the  King  of  France  !"  he  cried  ; 
but  still  the  foremost  body  galloped  on.  They  reached  the 
shore,  drew  up  their  horses  when  they  saw  that  the  tide  was 
in;  turned  suddenly  towards  the  cottage  ;  and  the  next  mo- 
ment Albert  could  see  his  mother  and  Emiline  fly  from  their 
dwelling  across  the  sands.  The  men-at-arms  had  other  mat- 
ters in  view  than  to  pursue  them ;  but  Albert  now  felt  that 
Marguerite's  only  hope  was  in  his  own  valor. 

"  To  the  turret !"  my  beloved  !"  he  cried,  "  to  the  turret!" 
And  half  bearing,  half  leading  her  along,  he  placed  her  under 
its  shelter,  and  took  his  station  in  the  pass.  A  new  soul 
seemed  to  animate  him,  new  light  shone  forth  from  his  eye  ; 
and,  in  words  which  might  have  suited  the  noblest  of  the 
land,  he  exhorted  her  to  keep  her  firmness  in  the  moment  of 
danger,  to  watch  around,  and  give  him  notice  of  all  she  saw 
from  the  loop-holes  of  the  turret.  Then  came  a  moment  of 
awful  suspense,  while  in  silence  and  in  doubt  they  waited 
the  result ;  but  still  the  host  of  France  might  be  seen  drawing 
nearer  and  more  near ;  and  the  standard  of  the  king  could  be 
distinguished  floating  on  the  wind  amidst  a  thousand  other 
banners  of  various  feudal  lords.  Hope  grew  high  in  Al- 
bert's breast,  and  he  trusted  that  ere  Burchard  could  find 
and  force  the  entrance  the  avenger  would  be  upon  him.  He 
hoped  in  vain,  however,  for  the  murderer  was  himself  well 


20S  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

acquainted  with  the  spot,  and  had  only  paused  to  secure 
the  door  of  the  vaults,  so  that  his  pursuers  could  not  follow 
by  the  same  means  he  himself  employed.  In  another  minute 
loud  voices  were  heard  echoing  through  the  ruin,  and  Albert 
and  Marguerite,  concealing  themselves  as  best  they  could, 
beheld  the  fierce  and  blood-thirsty  Prevot  with  his  compan- 
ions seeking  them  through  the  castle.  Still  onward  bore  the 
banners  of  France ;  and  ere  Burchard  had  discovered 
their  concealment,  the  shore  at  half  a  bow  shot  distance  was 
lined  with  chivalry.  So  near  were  they,  that,  uninterrupted 
by  the  soft  murmur  of  the  wraves,  could  be  heard  the  voice  of 
a  herald  calling  upon  the  rebels  to  surrender,  and  promising 
pardon  to  all  but  the  ten  principal  conspirators.  A  loud  shout 
of  defiance  was  the  only  reply ;  for  at  that  very  moment  the 
eye  of  Burchard  lighted  on  the  form  of  Albert  as  he  crouched 
under  the  wall,  and  the  men-at-arms  poured  on  along  the 
narrow  passage.  Concealment  could  now  avail  nothing  ; 
and  starting  up  with  his  battle-axe  in  his  hand,  he  planted 
himself  between  the  rebels  and  the  princess.  The  French 
on  the  shore  could  now  behold  him  also,  as  he  stood  with 
half  his  figure  above  the  parapet ;  and  instantly,  seeming 
to  divine  his  situation,  some  cross-bowrmen  were  brought  for- 
ward, and  poured  their  quarrels  on  the  men  of  the  Prevot  as 
they  rushed  forward  to  attack  him.  Two  or  three  were  struck 
down  ;  but  the  others  hurried  on,  and  the  safety  of  Albert 
himself  required  the  cross-bowmen  to  cease,  when  hand  to 
hand  he  was  compelled  to  oppose  the  passage  of  the  enemy. 
Each  blow  of  his  battle-axe  could  still  be  beheld  from  the 
land  ;  and  as  one  after  another  of  his  foes  went  down  before 
that  strong  and  ready  arm,  loud  and  grat dating  shouts  rang 
from  his  friends  upon  the  shore.  Still  others  pressed  on, 
catching  a  view  of  Marguerite  herself,  as,  in  uncontrollable 
anxiety  for  him  she  loved,  she  gazed  forth  from  the  turret 
door,  and  a  hundred  eager  eyes  were  bent  upon  her,  certain 
that  if  she  could  be  taken,  a  promise  of  pardon,  or  a  death  of 


THE    FISHERMAN    OF    SCARPHOUT.  209 

vengeance  at  least,  would  be  obtained  ;  but  only  one  could 
approach  at  a  time,  and  Albeit  was  forming  for  himself  a 
rampart  of  dead  and  dying.  At  that  moment,  however, 
Burchard,  who  stood  behind,  pointed  to  the  castle-court  be- 
low, where  a  number  of  old  planks  and  beams  lay  rotting  in 
the  sun.  A  dozen  of  his  men  sprang  down,  caught  up  the 
materials  which  he  showed  them,  planted  them  against  the 
wall  beyond  the  turret,  and  soon  raised  up  a  sort  of  tottering 
scaffold  behind  the  place  where  Marguerite's  gallant  defender 
stood.  He  himself,  eager  in  the  strife  before  him,  saw  not 
what  had  happened  ;  but  she  had  marked  the  fatal  advantage 
their  enemy  had  gained,  and,  gliding  like  a  ghost  from  out 
the  turret,  she  approached  close  to  his  side,  exclaiming, 
"  They  are  coming! — they  are  coming  from  the  other  side! — 
and  we  are  lost!" 

Albert  turned  his  head,  and  comprehended  in  a  moment. 
But  one  hope  was  left.  Dashing  to  the  earth  the  next  oppo- 
nent who  was  climbing  over  the  dead  bodies  between  them, 
he  struck  a  second  blow  at  the  one  beyond,  which  made  him 
recoil  upon  his  fellows.  Then  casting  his  battle-axe  and 
shield  away,  he  caught  the  light  form  of  Marguerite  in  his 
arms,  sprang  upon  the  parapet,  and  exclaiming,  "  Now  God 
befriend  us!"  plunged  at  once  into  the  deep  sea,  while,  at 
the  very  same  moment,  the  heads  of  the  fresh  assailants  ap- 
peared upon  the  wall  beyond.  A  cry  of  terror  and  amaze- 
ment rang  from  the  shore  ;  and  the  King  of  France  himself, 
with  two  old  knights  beside  him,  rode  on  till  the  waters 
washed  their  horses'  feet.  Albert  and  Marguerite  were  lost 
to  sight  in  a  moment ;  but  the  next  instant  they  appeared 
again;  and,  long  accustomed  to  sport  with  the  same  waves 
that  now  curled  gently  round  him  as  an  old  loved  friend, 
bearing  the  shoulders  of  Marguerite  lifted  on  his  left  arm, 
with  his  right  he  struck  boldly  towards  the  shore.  On — on  he 
bore  her !  and  like  a  lamb  in  the  bosom  of  the  shepherd,  she 
lay  without  a  struggle,  conquering  strong  terror  by  stronger 

18* 


210  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

resolution.  On — on  he  bore  her!  Glad  shouts  hailed  him 
as  he  neared  the  shore  ;  and  with  love  and  valour  lending 
strength,  he  came  nearer  and  more  near.  At  length  his  feet 
touched  the  ground,  and  throwing  both  arms  round  her,  he 
bore  her  safe,  and  rescued,  till  he  trod  the  soft  dry  sand.  Then 
kneeling  before  the  monarch,  he  set  his  fair  burden  softly  on 
the  ground — but  still  he  held  her  hand.  "  Hold  !  nobles — 
hold  !"  cried  the  King  of  France,  springing  from  his  horse. 
"  Before  any  one  greets  him,  I  will  give  him  the  greeting  he 
well  has  won.  Advance  the  standard  over  us !  Albert  of 
Boulogne,  I  dub  thee  Knight!  Be  ever  as  to-day,  gallant, 
brave,  and  true.  This  is  the  recompense  we  give.  Fair 
lady  of  Flanders,  we  think  you  owe  him  a  recompense  like- 
wise ;  and  we  believe  that,  according  to  our  wise  coast  laws, 
that  which  a  fisherman  brings  up  from  the  sea  is  his  own  by 
right.  Is  it  not  so,  my  good  Lord  of  Boulogne?"  and  he  turned 
to  a  tall  old  man  beside  him.  "  You,  of  all  men,  should 
know  best ;  as  for  ten  years  you  here  enacted  the  Fisherman 
of  Scarphout." 

The  nobles  laughed  loud,  and  with  tears  of  joy  the  old 
Count  of  Boulogne,  for  it  was  no  other,  embraced  his  noble 
son,  while  at  the  same  time  the  Lord  of  Wavrin  advanced, 
and  pressed  Marguerite's  hand  in  that  of  her  deliverer,  say- 
ing, "Her  father,  sire,  by  will,  as  you  will  find,  gave  the 
disposal  of  her  hand  to  me,  and  I  am  but  doing  my  duty  to 
him  in  bestowing  it  on  one  who  merits  it  so  well.  At  the 
same  time  it  is  a  comfort  to  my  heart  to  offer  my  noble  lord, 
the  Count  of  Boulogne,  some  atonement  for  having  done  him 
wrong  in  years  long  gone,  and  for  having,  even  by  mistake, 
brought  on  him  your  displeasure  and  a  ten  years'  exile.  He 
has  forgiven  me,  but  I  have  not  forgiven  myself;  and  as  an 
offering  of  repentance,  all  my  own  lands  and  territories,  at 
my  death,  I  give,  in  addition,  to  the  dowry  of  Marguerite  of 
Flanders." 

We  will  not  pause  upon  the  death  of  Burchard,  Prevot  of 


JULIAN'S    DEATH.  211 

St.  Donation.     It  was,  as  he  merited,  upon  a  scaffold.     Ex- 
planations, too,  are  tedious,  and  the  old  history  tells  no  more 
than  we  have  here  told,  leaving  the  imagination  of  its  readers 
to  fill  up  all  minor  particulars  in  the  life  of  the  Fisherman  of 
Scarphout. 


JULIAN'S    DEATH. 

BY   THE   LATE   EDWARD   KNIGHT,   ESft. 

An  acorn  was  planted  at  Julian's  birth, 
That  resisted  the  blights  of  the  weather  ; 

The  youth  grew  in  strength,  like  the  oak  from  the  earth, 
And  they  flourish 'd  in  beauty  together. 

The  youth  being  forced  to  a  far  distant  shore, 
The  leaves  fell  like  tears  to  the  ground  ; 

The  breeze  seemed  to  murmur,  young  Julian's  no  more, 
And  the  oak  droop'd  like  death  at  the  sound. 

The  branches  were  perish'd,  the  axe  was  applied, 
Which  fell'd  its  proud  head  to  the  ground  ; 

And  the  maiden  who  loved  him,  in  sorrow  she  sigh'd — 
Such  a  fate  has  my  Julian  found  ! 

Alas !  and  alas !  at  the  very  same  hour 

Came  news  that  suspended  her  breath  ; 
The  tree  was  now  IevePd,  and  so  was  the  flower, 

For  the  news  was  young  Julian's  death. 


THE  YOUNG  ARTIST. 

BY    VIRGINIA    DEFOREST. 

Fanny  Farquhar  was  the  most  persevering  girl  I  ever 
knew.  She  was  gay  and  lively,  but  not  volatile.  She  did 
not  fly  off  from  a  pursuit,  nor  even  an  amusement,  until  she 
had  accomplished  her  purpose,  or  "played  out  the  play." 
With  a  character  of  great  energy,  she  was  perfectly  inge- 
nuous, and  as  docile  and  obedient  as  mapy  young  ladies  are, 
who  have,  as  Pope  slanderously  says  of  most  of  our  sex,  "no 
characters  at  all." 

When  she  first  came  to  the  "young  ladies'  seminary," 
where  we  were  school-fellows,  she  commenced  drawing;  and 
Mr.  Mason  soon  pronounced  her  one  of  his  most  promising 
pupils.  She  was  not  content  with  copying  the  productions 
of  others  ;  and  her  judicious  instructor  encouraged  her  deter- 
mination to  learn  the  art  of  designing,  by  drawing  from  real 
objects.  So  when  she  had  exhausted  all  his  models — his 
wooden  globes,  and  cubes,  and  pyramids,  and  cylinders,  and 
piles  of  blocks,  and  bronze  figures  of  greyhounds  and  lions, 
she  forthwith  commenced  sketching  landscapes  from  nature  ; 
and  wherever  we  went  visiting,  Maying,  or  botanizing, 
Fanny  always  had  her  sketch-book  or  her  Bristol  boards  and 
pencil ;  and  while  the  rest  of  us  frolicked,  she  drew  pictures. 
This  went  on  so  constantly,  that  at  last  she  came  to  be 
designated  amongst  us  as  "the  Sketcher,"  just  in  the  same 
way  as  we  denominated  Marion  Raymond  "the  Poet,"  and 


>   > 

'  *        >    » 


THE    YOUNG    ARTIST.  213 

Fanny's  sister,  Harriet,  "the  Pianist,"   because  they  took 
the  lead  of  us  all,  in  poetry  and  music. 

So  long  as  Fanny  confined  herself  to  sketching  landscapes, 
we  thought  it  a  mere  matter  of  girlish  fancy ;  but  when,  after 
a  severe  course  of  drawing  the  human  figure  from  models, 
she  actually  took  up  oil  colors  and  painted  good  portraits  of 
her  sister  and  myself,  we  began  to  think  there  was  some 
serious  object  in  view,  although  the  large  fortune  of  Colonel 
Farquhar,  her  father,  entirely  excluded  the  idea  of  its  being 
a  mercenary  one. 

One  day,  when  we  were  above,  in  her  little  chamber, 
puzzling  out  a  hard  Latin  lesson,  I  took  the  opportunity  to 
question  Fanny  about  it,  in  a  bantering  way,  as  though  it 
were  just  for  idle  gossip. 

"  Pray,  Fanny,"  said  I,  "  what  could  possess  you,  to  soil 
your  delicate  hands  and  spoil,  I  don't  know  how  many  silk 
aprons,  with  those  horrible  oil  colors  ?  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing!" 

"  Oil  colors  are  more  easily  managed  than  water  colors  ; 
and  they  certainly  produce  much  stronger  effects." 

"  I  should  think  they  would,  at  least,  on  one's  olfactories, 
— turpentine  !  oil !  pah  !" 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing.  It  is  very  easy  to  keep  one's  studio 
nice,  if  one  only  takes  pains.  You  perceive  nothing  offen- 
sive here  now,  I  believe." 

"  Certainly  not.  But  I  see  no  signs  of  painting,  except 
your  little  easel  there,  in  the  corner." 

"But  all  the  materials  that  I  find  necessary  for  my  pur- 
pose, are  locked  up  in  yonder  closet." 

"What  a  world  of  trouble  it  must  be  to  clear  them  away 
i  very  time  you  paint.  I  cannot  conceive  what  should  induce 
you  to  carry  this  matter  so  far." 

"  Oh!  I  like  it.     Besides,  it  pleases  my  father." 

"Well,  it  is  very  odd,"  said  I,  resorting  to  that   stupid 


214  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

remark,  which  one  is  so  apt  to  make  when  one  does  not  very 
well  know  what  to  say  next. 

"Papa,"  she  replied,  "has  some  peculiar  notions,  indeed. 
Do  you  know,  that  when  he  placed  Harriet  and  me  at  this 
school,  before  going  to  Europe,  he  said,  '  Now,  girls,  I  wish 
each  of  you  to  have  a  truly  liberal  education  in  the  belles- 
lettres  and  the  sciences ;  but  I  do  not  wish  you  to  fritter 
away  your  time  on  a  variety  of  frivolous  accomplishments. 
If  one  of  you  will  learn  drawing  well  enough  to  design 
cleverly,  and  the  other  will  learn  the  piano  thoroughly,  I 
shall  like  it  much  better  than  for  you  both  to  attempt  and 
half  learn  a  dozen  different  things  of  the  same  class.  It  is 
better  to  do  one  thing  well,  than  to  do  forty  things  after  the 
trumpery  fashion  that  most  girls  are  satisfied  with  learning.' 
This  was  quite  a  long  speech  for  papa,  who,  you  know,  is  a 
man  of  few  words.  So,  after  he  was  gone,  as  Harriet  was 
fond  of  music,  and  I  of  pictures,  we  determined  to  follow  out 
the  hint  which  he  had  given,  as  literally  as  possible." 

So  here  was  the  grand  secret.  Filial  affection,  literal, 
exact  obedience  and  perseverance,  had  already  made  Fanny 
Farquhar  a  sketcher — nay  more,  an  artist  of  no  mean  power. 
The  same  motives  had  rendered  her  sister  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  amateur  performers  on  the  piano  in  the  whole 
city.  Certainly,  this  of  itself,  was  a  sufficient  compensation 
for  their  ignorance  of  embroidery,  and  rug  work,  and  poonah, 
and  net  work,  and  gingerbread  work  of  all  kinds,  with  silk 
and  floss,  and  worsted,  and  beads  ;  and  those  other  indescri- 
bable labors  of  Arachne,  which  puzzle  the  brains  and  torture 
the  fingers  of  innocent  young  ladies,  who,  in  other  respects, 
hardly  know  their  right  hand  from  their  left. 

Do  not  let  my  readers  suppose  that  Fanny  was  negligent 
of  the  ordinary  feminine  accomplishments.  She  was  a  good 
seamstress,  and  her  neatness  and  taste  in  dress  wTere  remark- 
able ;  and  she  had  such  a  noble  spirit,  and  such  a  feeling 
heart,  I  did  love  her;  and  when  the  colonel  came  home  from 


THE    YOUNG    ARTIST.  215 

Europe,  and  carried  her  and  her  sister  off  with  him  to  his 
estate  in  Mississippi,  I  sat  down  and  had  a  good  hearty  cry- 
ing spell,  which  lasted  me  two  hours.  Sentiment  was  not 
out  of  fashion  then. 

Fanny,  as  if  it  were  to  relieve  my  sorrow,  turned  out  a 
very  regular  and  persevering  correspondent ;  and  it  is  by 
means  of  her  letters,  continued  through  a  series  of  years,  that 
I  am  enabled  to  tell  the  rest  of  her  story. 

The  family  were  hardly  settled  at  home,  before  the  colonel 
set  off  again  for  Europe,  taking  Fanny  with  him,  and  leaving 
Harriet  in  charge  of  an  aunt,  who  resided  in  their  neighbor- 
hood. I  never  could  exactly  make  out,  from  Fanny's  letters, 
whether  her  father's  motive  for  his  repeated  visits  to  Europe 
was  business  or  pleasure;  but  he  traveled  about  a  great  deal, 
and  had  intercourse  with  the  merchant  princes  of  England, 
the  banker  king  of  France,  and  the  trading  nobles  of  Italy; 
so  that  Fanny  saw  all  sorts  of  society,  and  had  plenty  of 
subjects  for  sketches,  some  of  which,  done  with  a  crow  quill, 
adorned  her  letters,  and  now  form  the  most  unique  and  at- 
tractive ornament  of  my  scrap-book. 

One  winter  they  stayed  in  Rome,  as  Fanny  said,  "to 
enjoy  themselves  and  see  the  sights."  There  she  had  her 
studio,  and  made  sketching  excursions  among  the  ruins,  and 
indulged  her  fondness  for  an  art,  which  had  become  her 
favorite  pursuit,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  which  it  was  calcu- 
lated to  inspire,  in  a  city  consecrated  by  so  many  recollec- 
tions of  ancient  glory  and  power.  Suddenly  her  dream  of 
happiness  was  sadly  terminated  by  a  series  of  unloosed  for 
calamities.  Her  father  received  information  from  home,  that, 
in  consequence  of  extensive  speculations,  in  which  he  had 
been  concerned,  his  whole  fortune  was  irretrievably  lost. 
The  blow  was  too  much  for  one  of  his  sanguine  temperament. 
It  broke  his  heart.  He  fell  into  a  rapid  decline,  and  in  a  few 
months   breathed  his  last,  leaving  his  daughter  in  a  strange 


216  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

land,  surrounded  with  all  the  difficulties  which  are  attendant 
on  pecuniary  destitution  and  an  unprotected  situation. 

Unfortunately  there  were,  at  the  time  of  Colonel  Farquhar's 
decease,  no  Americans  in  Rome  with  whom  Fanny  was  ac- 
quainted. Unable  to  communicate  speedily  with  her  sister, 
and  knowing  no  one  upon  whom  she  could  call  for  aid,  she 
was  thrown  entirely  upon  her  own  resources  for  support, 
until  she  could  receive  remittances  from  her  friends,  to  en- 
able her  to  return  to  her  own  country. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Fanny  that,  at  this  trying  period,  she 
had  resources  of  her  own,  which  were  fully  adequate  to  the 
occasion.  Her  father's  foresight  in  recommending  to  her  the 
complete  acquisition  of  one  art,  was  now  apparent.  Her 
pencil  furnished  the  means  of  independence.  An  English 
lady,  with  whom  she  had  become  acquainted  during  her 
residence  in  Rome,  offered  her  an  asylum  in  her  palazza; 
and  when  she  learned  that  Fanny  had  resolved  to  make  her 
art  the  means  of  her  support,  she  exerted  herself  with  effect 
to  afford  her  ample  opportunities  for  disposing  of  her  produc- 
tions among  the  British  residents  in  the  Eternal  City. 

A  young  English  gentleman,  who  frequently  visited  Mrs. 
Vinton,  Fanny's  friend,  had,  with  much  entreaty,  prevailed 
upon  her  to  obtain  permission  for  him  to  sit  by  Fanny's 
easel,  while   she   was   painting  the  portrait  of  a  beautiful 
flower  girl,  the  figure  being  introduced  into  a  group  which 
was  intended  to  adorn  the  gallery  of  some  nobleman.     They 
very  naturally  fell  into  conversation  on  the  arts.     This  led  to 
some  disquisitions  on  literature  and  science ;  and  before  the 
sitting  was  over,  Mr.  Mordaunt  became  not  a  little  impressed 
with  the  extraordinary  extent  and  variety  of  Fanny's  know- 
ledge.    He  had  expected  to  find  a  mere  artist,  ignorant  of 
everything  but  that  which  pertained  immediately  to  art;  but 
he  discovered  a   mind,  rich   with  the   stores  of  poetry  and 
history,  a  taste  which  could  appreciate  the  finer  beauties  of 
literature,  and  a  feeling  heart,  filled  with  the  noblest  enthu- 


THE    YOUNG    ARTIST.  217 

siasra  for  all  that  is  beautiful   and  grand,  not  only  in  the 
physical,  but  the  moral  world. 

It  may  be  readily  supposed  that  he  became  interested  in 
no  ordinary  degree.  Having  once  obtained  the  entree  of 
Fanny's  studio,  he  repeated  his  visits  every  day,  and  soon 
found  that  the  fair  artist  had,  without  intending  it,  made  an 
impression  on  his  heart,  which  rendered  it  necessary  to  his 
happiness  to  gain  her  own,  or  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 

In  this  state  of  things,  he  had  recourse  to  Mrs.  Vinton,  of 
whom  he  formally  demanded  permission  to  pay  his  addresses 
to  Fanny.  As  his  character  was  unblemished,  and  his  for- 
tune ample,  she  referred  him  at  once  to  his  own  family,  and 
to  the  fair  object  of  his  attentions.  As  to  the  former,  he  was 
independent,  and  he  determined  to  follow  the  bent  of  his 
own  inclinations.  How  to  break  the  matter  to  Fanny,  was 
a  question  which  required  "  a  mighty  deal  of  nice  considera- 
tion." 

Fanny  was  not  without  her  share  of  pride,  and  she  would 
have  rejected  addresses  in  her  present  situation  from  one 
apparently  her  superior  in  station,  which  she  might  have 
accepted,  w'hen  she  could  in  every  point  have  claimed 
equality.  Poor  Mord aunt  was  over  head  and  ears  in  love; 
and,  for  the  life  of  him,  he  could  not  contrive  a  mode  of  dis- 
closing his  passion  without  alarming  the  pride  and  delicacy 
of  Fanny.  Day  by  day  did  he  watch  the  movements  of  her 
pencil,  and  endeavor  by  every  art  of  which  he  was  master  to 
sound  the  depths  of  a  heart,  which  was  all  unconscious  of 
his  devotion,  vainly  wishing  that  it  were  as  easy  to  trace  the 
course  of  her  thoughts  as  it  was  to  follow  the  movements  of 
her  hand.  Fanny  was  so  completely  engrossed  with  her  art, 
that  she  took  little  heed  of  the  progress  of  her  lover's  attach- 
ment ;  and  there  was  something  about  her  so  frank,  so  calm, 
so  quiet,  that  the  trumpery  gallantry  so  frequently  played  off 
upon  ordinary  girls,  was  entirely  out  of  the  question  in  her 
case.  All  that  Mordaunt  could  do,  was  to  admire  unnoticed, 
19 


218  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

and  to  sigh  unheeded.  Fanny  thought  him  unusually  fond 
of  paintings;  but  never  dreamed  that  he  was  still  more  partial 
to  the  painter.  She  recognized  a  devotee  to  the  arts,  but  not 
a  devoted  slave  to  the  artist.  As  for  Mrs.  Vinton,  who  might 
have  been  supposed  ready  enough  to  inform  Fanny  of  her 
conquest,  she  had  the  delicacy  never  to  mention  it.  She 
chose  to  let  the  affair  take  its  own  course,  determined  that  in 
a  matter  of  such  importance  to  her  friend,  no  interference  of 
hers  should  influence  her  decision,  or  expose  her  own  motives 
to  misconstruction. 

"While  things  were  going  on  in  this  way,  it  happened  one 
evening  that  Mordaunt,  in  returning  from  an  excursion  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Rome,  was  attacked  by  banditti,  and 
badly  wounded.  He  was  brought  to  his  hotel,  and  confined 
some  weeks,  before  he  was  able  to  go  out.  When,  at  last, 
he  was  released  by  his  physician  from  the  confinement  of  his 
room,  his  first  visit  was  to  Mrs.  Vinton's.  During  his  illness 
he  had  hoped  that  some  unusual  expression  of  interest  in  his 
misfortune  might  reach  from  that  quarter,  whence  it  would 
have  been  most  welcome;  but  nothing,  beyond  what  a  com- 
mon acquaintance  would  have  manifested,  presented  itself. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  when  accidentally 
left  alone  with  Fanny,  in  Mrs.  Vinton's  boudoir  for  a  few 
moments,  he  should  have  appeared  unusually  dejected. 
Fanny,  good  soul,  as  was  very  natural,  began  to  inquire  of 
him  what  it  was  which  was  weighing  so  heavily  on  his  mind. 
She  hoped  he  had  heard  no  bad  news  from  England,  or  that 
nothing  had  happened  to  that  splendid  Carlo  Dolce  which  he 
was  so  good  as  to  show  her  a  few  days  before  his  wound  had 
been  received. 

"It  was  clear  enough  to  her    apprehension,"  she  said, 
"  that  something  was  the  matter.     Pray,  what  could  it  be  ?" 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Mordaunt,  "  I  am  placed  in 
a  most  unfortunate  and  trying  dilemma." 

"  How?     If  it  is  not  improper  to  inquire." 


THE    YOUNG    ARTIST.  219 

"  By  no  means.  You  are  very  good,  Miss  Farquhar,  to 
take  sufficient  interest  in  ray  affairs  to  ask.  Know,  then, 
that  since  my  residence  here,  in  Rome,  I  have  become  most 
devotedly  attached  to  a  lady,  who  is  one  of  the  most  noble 
and  lovely  of  her  sex " 

"  Oh,  of  course.  You  need  not  describe  her.  All  ladies 
are  paragons,  under  the  same  circumstances." 

"But  I  must  describe  her,"  replied  Mordaunt,  rallying  a 
little,  at  this  unexpected  sally  ;  "  I  must  describe  her,  in 
order  that  you  may  understand  something  of  the  difficulty  of 
the  case." 

"Very  well.     Go  on,  since  it  must  be  so." 

"  This  lady  is  in  mental  and  moral  endowments  infinitely 
my  superior,  and  so  beautiful!  In  her  own  country,  she 
ranks  among  the  highest ;  and  the  elevation  of  her  character 
is  such,  that  I  reverence  as  much  as  I  love  her.  But  she 
knows  not  of  my  attachment,  and  there  is,  I  fear,  an  insu- 
perable barrier  placed  between  us  by  the  position  which  she 
at  present  occupies.  A  circumstance  exists  which  I  regard 
as  not  of  the  slightest  moment,  which  ought  not  to  prevent  her 
accepting  my  devotion ;  but  which,  I  fear,  will  be  sufficient 
to  occasion  her  not  listening  for  a  moment  to  my  suit." 

"  Are  you  certain  that  she  is  not  aware  of  your  prefer- 
ence ?" 

"  Quite  certain ;  and  I  know  not  how  to  declare  myself. 
I  dare  not  speak  to  her  upon  the  subject.  If  she  should  repel 
me,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  die  upon  the  spot." 

"I  should  think,  from  what  you  say,  that  this  terrible  bar- 
rier is  altogether  an  imaginary  one — nothing  real.  The  lady 
is  not  engaged  to  any  one  else,  I  hope?" 

"  I  certainly  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  she  is ;  and 
the  difficulty  arises  altogether  from  the  high-toned  ideas  of 
the  lady  upon  certain  points." 

"Why  not  declare  yourself  at  once?     She  will  not  have 


220  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

the  heart  to  refuse  you  now,  just  rescued  as  you  are  from  the 
dasrcrer  of  the  assassin." 

"Would  you  plead  my  cause  for  me?  Would  you  lend 
me  your  benevolent  aid?" 

"  I  would  with  all  my  heart,  if  only  I  knew  who  the  lady 

was." 

"Know,  then,  Miss  Farquhar — Fanny — it  is  yourself! 
You  hold  in  this  fair  hand  the  keys  of  life  and  death  for  me." 

With  a  sudden  impulse  he  had  seized  her  hand,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips.  He  durst  not  look  up  to  read  his 
destiny  in  her  face.  The  turn  the  conversation  had  taken, 
had  hurried  him  into  a  declaration,  which,  a  moment  before, 
he  had  not  intended  at  that  time  to  make ;  and  the  tumult  of 
emotions,  combining  with  the  weakness  occasioned  by  his 
wound,  was  so  powerful  that  he  fell  prostrate  at  her  feet  in  a 

swoon. 

*******  * 

The  wooing  sped  rather  more  agreeably  than  it  began. 
It  took  many  months,  however,  for  the  lover  to  win  Fanny's 
consent  to  abandon  the  prospect  of  returning  to  reside  among 
her  own  kindred  in  her  own  beloved  country.  But  Mor- 
daunt's  perseverance  in  his  suit,  was  as  unremitted  as 
Fanny's  had  been  in  her  sketching  at  school;  and  at  last 
they  were  married,  and  went  to  reside  on  Mr.  Mordaunt's 
estate  in  Kent ;  and,  last  summer,  when  I  was  in  England, 
Fanny  took  me  with  her  on  a  sketching  excursion  to  the  Isle 
of  Wight,  accompanied  by  her  husband,  who  is  a  fine,  spirited 
looking  fellow,  although  he  did  falsify  the  adage,  that  "  a 
faint  heart  never  won  a  fair  lady." 


FOR     SPAIN! 


BT  JOHN    IIIMK. 


I. 

For  Spain !  that  crushed  the  Infidel  beneath  her  mountain 


war, 


And  bade  his  crescent  wane  in  blood,  and  broke  his  scy- 

metar, 
And  in  her  naked  strength  stood  up  on  Zaragossa's  walls, 
The  hour  that  shall  be  kept  for  aye  in  Freedom's  festivals. 

II. 

The   sword!   the  sword   again!    and   cast  the  scabbard  far 

away! 
And  naked  bear  the  blade  in  hand — as  naked  as  the  day — 
Naked  as  the  right  it  guards,  or  as  the  wrong  it  braves — 
As  the  hearts  of  true  freemen,  or  as  the  heads  of  slaves! 

III. 

Standout!  standout!  and  fear  them  not!  remember  where 

you  stand — 
Upon  the  bulwark  of  your  cause — upon  your  native  land : 
Remember  what  you  stand  ibr  there — that  she  may  yet  be 

free — 
For  all  she  is — for  all  she  was — for  all  she  yet  must  be! 

19* 


222  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

IV. 

For  all  she  clothes  in  bliss  and  bloom  unto  your  hearts  and 
eyes — 

The  smiles  and  tears,  the  hopes  and  fears,  she  shades  and 
sanctifies — 

For  home  and  hearth,  and  children's  love — for  renovated 
mind — 

For  Freedom — Spain — Humanity! — for  Spain  and  for  Man- 
kind! 


MOONSHINE 


BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF    PETER    SIMPLE. 


Those  who  have  visited  our  West  India  possessions,  must 
have  often  been  amused  with  the  humor  and  cunning  which 
occasionally  appear  in  a  negro  more  endowed  than  the  gene- 
rality of  his  race,  particularly  when  the  master  also  happens 
to  be  a  humorist.  The  swarthy  servant  seems  to  reflect  his 
patron's  absurdities ;  and  having  thoroughly  studied  his  cha- 
racter, ascertains  how  far  he  can  venture  to  take  liberties 
without  fear  of  punishment. 

One  of  these  strange  specimens  I  once  met  with  in  a  negro 
called  Moonshine,  belonging  to  a  person  equally  strange  in 
his  own  way,  who  had,  for  many  years,  held  the  situation  of 
harbor-master  at  Port  Royal,  but  had  then  retired  on  a  pen- 
sion, and  occupied  a  small  house  at  Ryde,  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight.  His  name  was  Cockle,  but  he  had  long  been  ad- 
dressed as  Captain  Cockle ;  and  this  brevet  rank  he  retained 
until  the  day  of  his  death.  In  person,  he  was  very  large  and 
fat — not  unlike  a  cockle  in  shape:  so  round  wTere  his  pro- 
portions, and  so  unwieldy,  that  it  appeared  much  easier  to 
roll  him  along  from  one  place  to  another,  than  that  he  should 
walk.  Indeed,  locomotion  was  not  to  his  taste :  he  seldom 
went  much  farther  than  round  the  small  patch  of  garden 
which  was  in  front  of  his  house,  and  in  which  he  had  some 
pinks,  and  carnations,  and  chrysanthemums,  of  which  he 
was  not  a  little  proud.     His  head  was  quite  bald,  smooth, 


224  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

and  shining  white  ;  his  face  partook  of  a  more  roseate  tint, 
increasing  in  depth  till  it  settled  into  an  intense  red  at  the 
tip  of  his  nose.  Cockle  had  formerly  been  master  of  a  mer- 
chant vessel,  and  from  his  residence  in  a  warm  climate  had 
contracted  a  habit  of  potation,  which  became  confirmed  dur- 
ing the  long  period  of  his  holding  his  situation  at  Port  Royal. 
He  had  purchased  Moonshine  for  three  hundred  dollars,  when 
he  was  about  seven  years  old,  and,  upon  his  return  to  Eng- 
land, had  taken  him  with  him. 

Moonshine  was  very  much  attached  to  his  master,  very 
much  attached  to  having  his  own  way,  and  was,  farther,  very 
much  attached  to  his  master's  grog  bottle. 

The  first  attachment  was  a  virtue,  the  second  human  na- 
ture, and  the  third,  in  the  opinion  of  old  Cockle,  a  crime  of 
serious  magnitude.  I  very  often  called  upon  Captain  Cockle, 
for  he  had  a  quaint  humor  about  him  which  amused  ;  and, 
as  he  seldom  went  out,  he  was  always  glad  to  see  any  of  his 
friends.  Another  reason  was,  that  I  seldom  went  to  the 
house  without  finding  some  entertainment  in  the  continual 
sparring  between  the  master  and  the  man.  I  was  at  that 
time  employed  in  the  Preventive  Service,  and  my  station  was 
about  four  miles  from  the  residence  of  Cockle.  One  morning 
I  stalked  in,  and  found  him,  as  usual,  in  his  little  parlor  on 
the  ground  floor. 

"Well,  Cockle,  my  boy,  how  are  you?" 
"  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Bob,  I'm  all  wrong.     I'm  on 
the  stool  of  repentance;  to  wit,  on  this  easy  chair,  doing 
penance,  as  you  perceive,  in  a  pair  of  duck  trowsers.     Last 
night  I  was  half  seas  over,  and  tolerably  happy;  this  morn- 
ing, I  am  high  and  dry,  and  intolerably  miserable.     Carried 
more  sail  than  ballast  last  night,  and  lost  my  head ;  this  morn- 
ing I've  found  it  again,  with  a  pig  of  ballast  in  it,  I  believe. 
All  owing  to  my  good  nature." 
"  How  is  that,  Cockle  ?" 
"  Why,  that  Jack  Piper  was  here  last  night ;  and  rather 


MOONSHINE.  225 

than  he  should  drink  all  the  grog  and  not  find  his  way  home, 
I  drank  some  myself— he'd  been  in  a  bad  way  if  I  had  not, 
poor  fellow! — and  now,  you  see,  I'm  suffering  all  from  good 
nature.  Easiness  of  disposition  has  been  my  ruin,  and  has 
rounded  me  into  this  ball,  by  wearing  away  all  my  sharp 
edges,  Bob." 

"  It  certainly  was  very  considerate  and  very  kind  of  you, 
Cockle,  especially  when  we  know  how  much  you  must  have 
acted  at  variance  with  your  inclinations." 

"  Yes,  Bob,  yes,  I  am  the  milk-punch  of  human  kindness; 
I  often  cry — when  the  chimney  smokes ;  and  sometimes — 
when  I  laugh  too  much.  All  the  women  at  Port  Royal  used 
to  say  that  I  was  a  man  of  feeling.  You  see  I  not  only  give 
my  money,  as  others  will  do,  but,  as  last  night,  I  even  give 
my  head  to  assist  a  fellow-creature.  I  could,  however,  dis- 
pense with  it  for  an  hour  or  two  this  morning." 

"  Nay,  don't  say  that ;  for  although  you  might  dispense 
with  the  upper  part,  you  could  not  well  get  on  without  your 
mouth,  Cockle." 

"  Very  true,  Bob;  a  chap  without  a  mouth,  would  be  like 
a  ship  without  a  companion  hatch ; — talking  about  that,  the 
combings  of  my  mouth  are  rather  dry — what  do  you  say,  Bob, 
shall  we  call  Moonshine?" 

"Why,  it's  rather  broad  daylight  for  Moonshine." 

"  He's  but  an  eclipse — a  total  eclipse,  I  may  say.  The 
fact  is,  my  head  is  so  heavy,  that  it  rolls  about  on  my  shoul- 
ders ;  and  I  must  have  a  stiffener  down  my  throat  to  prop  it 
up.     So,  Moonshine,  shine  out,  you  black-faced  rascal!" 

The  negro  was  outside,  cleaning  his  knives : — he  answered, 
but  continued  at  his  work. 

"  How  me  shine,  Massa  Cockle,  when  you  neber  gib  me 
shiner  V 

"No:  but  I'll  give  you  a  skinner  on  your  lower  limb,  that 
shall  make  you  feel  planet-struck,  if  you  don't  show  your 
ugly  face,"  replied  Cockle. 


226  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

"  Massa  Cockle,  you  full  of  dictionary  dis  marning." 

"  Come  here,  sir!" 

"  Why  you  so  parsonal  dis  marning,  sir?"  replied  Moon- 
shine, rubbing  away  at  the  knife-board — "  my  face  no  shine 
more  dan  your  white  skull  widout  hair." 

"  I  pulled  one  out,  you  scoundrel,  every  time  you  stole 
my  grog,  and  now  they  are  all  gone. — Hairs !  what  should 
I  do  with  heirs,  when  I've  nothing  to  leave?"  continued 
Cockle,  addressing  me — "hairs  are  like  rats, that  quit  a  ship 
as  soon  as  she  gets  old.  Now,  Bob,  I  wonder  how  long 
that  rascal  will  make  us  wait.  I  brought  him  home  and 
gave  him  his  freedom — but  give  an  inch  and  he  takes  an  ell. 
Moonshine,  I  begin  to  feel  angry — the  tip  of  my  nose  is  red 
already." 

"Come  directly,  Massa  Cockle." 

Moonshine  gave  two  more  rubs  on  the  board,  and  then 
made  his  appearance. 

"You  call  me,  sar?" 

"  What's  the  use  of  calling  you,  you  black  rascal?" 

"Now,  sar,  dat  not  fair — you  say  to  me,  '  Moonshine, 
always  do  one  ting  first' — so  I  'bey  order  and  finish  knives — 
dat  ting  done,  I  come  and  'bey  nest  order." 

"  Well,  bring  some  cold  water  and  some  tumblers." 

Moonshine  soon  appeared  with  the  articles,  and  then 
walked  out  of  the  room,  grinning  at  me. 

"  Moonshine,  where  are  you  going,  you  thief? — When  did 
you  ever  see  me  drink  cold  water,  or  offer  it  to  my  friends?" 

"  Nebber  see  you  drink  it  but  once,  and  den  you  tipsy,  and 
tink  it  gin ;  but  you  very  often  gib  noting  but  water  to  your 
friends,  Massa  Cockle." 

"When,  you  scoundrel?" 

"  Why,  very  often  you  say  dat  water  quite  strong  enough 
for  me." 

"  That's  because  I  love  you,  Moonshine.  Grog  is  a  sad 
enemy  to  us." 


MOONSHINE.  227 

"Massa  Cockle  real  fine  Christian — he  lub  him  enemy," 
interrupted  Moonshine,  looking  at  me. 

"  At  all  events,  I'm  not  ashamed  to  look  mine  enemy  in 
the  face — so  hand  us  out  the  bottle." 
Moonshine  put  the  bottle  on  the  table. 
"Now,  Bob,"  said  Cockle,  "what  d'ye  say  to   a  seven 
bell-erf     Why,  hallo!  what's  become  of  all  the  grog?" 

"All  drank  last  night,  Massa  Cockle,"  replied  Moon- 
shine. 

"  Now,  you  ebony  thief,  I'll  swear  that  there  was  half  a 
bottle  left  when  I  took  my  last  glass ;  for  I  held  the  bottle  up 
to  the  candle  to  ascertain  the  ullage." 

"  When  you  go  up  'tairs,  Massa  Cockle,  so  help  me  Gad ! 
not  one  drop  left  in  de  bottle." 

"Will  you  take  your  oath,  Moonshine,  that  you  did  not 
drink  any  last  night  ?" 

"  No,  Massa  Cockle,  because  I  gentleman,  and  nebber  tell 
lie — me  drink,  because  you  gib  it  to  me." 

"  Then  I  must  have  been  drunk,  indeed.  Now,  tell  me, 
how  did  I  give  it  to  you  ?  —  tell  me  every  word  which 
passed." 

"  Yes,  Massa  Cockle,  me  make  you  recollect  all  about  it. 
When  Massa  Piper  go  away,  you  look  at  bottle  and  den  you 
say,  '  'Fore  I  go  up  to  bed,  I  take  one  more  glass  for  coming 
upS — Den  I  say,  '  'Pose  you  do,  you  nebber  be  able  to  go 
up.'  Den  you  say,  '  Moonshine,  you  good  fellow  (you  always 
call  me  good  fellow  when  you  want  me),  you  must  help  me.' 
You  drink  you  grog — you  fall  back  in  de  chair,  and  you 
shut  first  one  eye  and  den  you  shut  de  oder.  I  see  more  grog 
on  de  table :  so  I  take  up  de  bottel  and  I  say,  'Massa  Cockle, 
you  go  up  stairs?'  and  you  say,  '  Yes,  yes — directly.'  Den 
I  hold  de  bottel  up  and  say  to  you,  '  Massa,  shall  I  help  you?' 
and  you  say,  'Yes,  you  must  help  me.'  So  den  I  take  one 
glass  of  grog,  'cause  you  tell  me  to  help  you." 


228  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  to  help  yourself,  though,  you  scoun- 
drel!" 

"  Yes,  massa,  when  you  tell  me  to  help  you  with  de  bottel, 
I  'bey  order,  and  help  myself.  Den,  sar,  I  waits  little  more, 
and  I  say,  '  Massa,  now  you  go  up  'tairs,'  and  you  start  up 
and  you  wake,  and  you  say,  'Yes,  yes;'  and  den  I  hold  up 
and  show  you  bottel  again,  and  I  say,  'Shall  I  help  you, 
massa?'  and  den  you  say,  'Yes.'  So  I  'bey  order  again,  and 
take  one  more  glass.  Den  you  open  mouth  and  you  snore — 
so  I  look  again,  and  I  see  one  littel  glass  more  in  bottel,  and 
I  call  you,  '  Massa  Cockle,  Massa  Cockle,'  and  you  say, 
'  high — high  !' — and  den  you  head  fall  on  you  chest,  and  you 
go  sleep  again — so  den  I  call  again,  and  I  say,  'Massa 
Cockle,  here  one  lilly  more  drop,  shall  I  drink  it?'  and  you 
nod  you  head  on  you  bosom,  and  say  noting — so  I  not  quite 
sure,  and  t  say  again,  '  Massa  Cockle,  shall  I  finish  this  lilly 
drop  ?'  and  you  nod  you  head  once  more.  Den  I  say,  '  all 
right,'  and  I  say,  'you  very  good  helt,  Massa  Cockle  ;'  and 
I  finish  de  bottel.  Now,  massa,  you  ab  de  whole  tory,  and 
it  all  really  for  true." 

I  perceived  that  Cockle  was  quite  as  much  amused  at  this 
account  of  Moonshine's  as  I  was  myself,  but  he  put  on  a 
bluff  look. 

"  So,  sir,  it  appears  that  you  took  advantage  of  my  help- 
less situation,  to  help  yourself." 

"Massa  Cockle,  just  now  you  tell  Massa  Farran  dat  you 
drink  so  much,  all  for  good  nature  to  Massa  Piper — I  do 
same,  all  for  good  nature." 

"Well,  Mr.  Moonshine,  I  must  have  some  grog,"  replied 
Cockle,  "  and  as  you  helped  yourself  last  night,  now  you 
must  help  me  ; — get  it  how  you  can,  I  give  you  just  ten 

minutes " 

"  'Pose  you  gib  me  ten  shillings,  sar,"  interrupted  Moon- 
shine, "  dat  better." 

"  Cash  is  all  gone.     I  haven't  a  skillick  till  quarter-day, 


MOONSHINE.  229 

not  a  shot  in  the  locker  till  Wednesday.     Either  get  me  some 
more  grog,  or  you'll  get  more  kicks  than  halfpence." 

"  You  no  ab  money— you  no  ab  tick— how  I  get  grog, 
Massa  Cockle?  Missy  O'Bottom,  she  tell  me,  last  quarter 
day,  no  pay  lohole  bill,  she  not  half  like  it;  she  say  you  d— n 
deceiver,  and  no  trust  more." 

"  Confound  the  old  hag!  Would  you  believe  it,  Bob,  that 
Mrs.  Row-bottom  has  wanted  to  grapple  with  me  these  last 
two  years — wants  to  make  me  landlord  of  the  Goose  and 
Pepper-box,  taking  her  as  a  fixture  with  the  premises.  I 
suspect  I  should  be  the  goose,  and  she  the  pepper-box  ; — but 
we  never  could  shape  that  course.  In  the  first  place,  there's 
too  much  of  her ;  and,  in  the  next,  there's  too  much  of  me. 
I  explained  this  to  the  old  lady  as  well  as  I  could;  and  she 
swelled  up  as  big  as  a  balloon,  saying,  that,  when  people 
were  really  attached,  they  never  attached  any  weight  to  such 
trifling  obstacles." 

"  But  you  must  have  been  sweet  upon  her,  Cockle!" 

"  Nothing  more  than  a  little  sugar  to  take  the  nauseous 
taste  of  my  long  bill  out  of  her  mouth.  As  for  the  love  part 
of  the  story,  that  was  all  her  own.  I  never  contradict  a  lady, 
because  it's  not  polite;  but  since  I  explained,  the  old  woman 
has  huffed,  and  won't  trust  me  with  a  half  quartern— will 
she,  Moonshine?" 

"No,  sar:  when  I  try  talk  her  over,  and  make  promise, 
she  say  dat  all  moonshine.  But,  sar,  I  try  'gain— I  tink  I 
know  how."  And  Moonshine  disappeared,  leaving  us  in  the 
dark  as  to  what  his  plans  might  be. 

"I  wonder  you  never  did  marry,  Cockle,"  I  observed. 

"  You  would  not  wonder  if  you  knew  all.  I  must  say,  that 
once,  and  once  only,  I  was  very  near  it.  And  to  whom  do 
you  think  it  was? — a  woman  of  color." 

"  A  black  woman  ?" 

"  No :   not   half  black,  only  a  quarter— what  they  call  a 
20 


230  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

quadroon  in  the  West  Indies.     But,  thank  Heaven!  she  re- 
fused me." 

"  Refused  you  !  hang  it,  Cockle,  I  never  thought  that  you 
had  been  refused  by  a  woman  of  color." 

"  I  was,  though.  You  shall  hear  how  it  happened.  She 
had  been  the  quadroon  wife  (you  know  what  that  means)  of 
a  planter  of  the  name  of  Guiness ;  he  died,  and  not  only  be- 
queathed her  her  liberty,  but  also  four  good  houses  in  Port 
Royal,  and  two  dozen  slaves.  He  had  been  dead  about  two 
years,  and  she  was  about  thirty,  when  I  first  knew  her.  She 
was  very  rich,  for  she  had  a  good  income  and  spent  nothing, 
except  in  jewels  and  dress  to  deck  out  her  own  person,  which 
certainly  was  very  handsome,  even  at  that  time,  for  she 
never  had  had  any  family.  Well,  if  I  was  not  quite  in  love 
with  her,  I  was  with  her  houses  and  her  money ;  and  I  used 
to  sit  in  her  verandah  and  talk  sentimental.  One  day  I  made 
my  proposal.  '  Massa  Cockle,'  said  she,  '  dere  two  ting  I 
not  like:  one  is,  I  not  like  your  name.  'Pose  I  'cept  you 
offer,  you  must  change  you  name.' 

"  '  Suppose  you  accept  my  offer,  Mistress  Guiness,  you'll 
change  your  name.  I  don't  know  how  I  am  to  change 
mine,'  I  replied. 

"  '  I  make  'quiry,  Massa  Cockle,  and  I  find  that  by  act 
and  parliament  you  get  anoder  name.' 

"'An  act  of  parliament!'  I  cried. 

"  'Yes,  sar;  and  I  pay  five  hundred  gold  Joe  'fore  I  hear 
people  call  me  Missy  Cockle — dat  shell  fish,'  said  she,  and 
she  turned  up  her  nose. 

"  '  Humph !'  said  I ;  '  and  pray  what  is  the  next  thing  which 
you  wish?' 

"  '  De  oder  ting,  sar,  it  you  no  ab  coat  am  arms,  no  ab 
seal  to  your  watch,  wid  biru  and  beast  pon  'em  ;  now  'pose 
you  promise  me  dat  you  take  oder  name,  and  buy  um  coat 
am  arms;  den,  sar,  I  take  de  matter  into  'sideration.' 

"  'Save  yourself  the  trouble,  ma'am,'  said  I,  jumping  up; 


MOONSHINE.  231 

'  my  answer  is  short — I'll  see  you  and  your  whole  generation 
hanged  first !'  " 

"  Well,  that  was  a  very  odd  sort  of  a  wind-up  to  a  pro- 
posal; but  here  comes  Moonshine." 

The  black  entered  the  room,  and  put  a  full  bottle  down  on 
the  table. 

"Dare  it  is,  sar,"  said  he,  grinning. 

"  Well  done,  Moonshine,  now  I  forgive  you ;  but  how  did 
you  manage  it  ?" 

"  Me  tell  you  all  de  tory,  sar — first  I  see  Missy  O'Bottom, 
and  I  say,  'how  you  do,  how  you  find  yousel  dis  marning? 
Massa  come,  I  tink,  by  an  by,  but  he  almost  'fraid,'  I  said. 
She  say,  'What  he  'fraid  for?'  'He  tink  you  angry — not 
like  see  him — no  lub  him  any  more  :  he  very  sorry,  very  sick 
at  'art — he  very  much  in  lub  wid  you.'  " 

"The  devil  you  did!"  roared  Cockle;  "  now  I  shall  be 
bothered  again  with  that  old  woman;  I  wish  she  was  moored 
as  a  buoy  to  the  Royal  George." 

"  Massa  no  hear  all  yet.  I  say,  '  Miss  O'Bottom,  'pose 
you  no  tell?'  '  I  tell.' — '  Massa  call  for  clean  shirt  dis  morn- 
ing, and  I  say,  it  no  clean  shirt  day,  sar;'  he  say,  '  bring  me 
clean  shirt;'  and  den  he  put  him  on  clean  shirt,  and  he  put 
him  on  clean  duck  trowsers;  he  make  me  brush  him  best  blue 
coat.  I  say, '  What  all  dis  for,  massa?'  He  put  him  hand  up 
to  him  head,  and  he  fetch  him  breat  hand  say — '  I  'fraid  Missy 
O'Bottom  no  hear  me  now — I  no  ab  courage;'  and  den  he 
sit  all  dress  ready,  and  no  go.  Den  he  say,  '  Moonshine, 
gib  me  one  glass  grog,  den  I  ab  courage.'  I  go  fetch  bottel, 
and  all  grog  gone — not  one  lilly  drop  left ;  den  massa  fall 
down  plump  in  him  big  chair,  and  say,  'I  nebber  can  go.' 
'But,'  say  Missy  O'Bottom,  'why  he  no  send  for  some?' 
'Cause,'  I  say,  'quarter-day  not  come — money  all  gone.' — 
Den  say  she,  'If  you  poor  massa  so  very  bad,  den  I  trust  you 
one  bottle — you  gib  my  complimens  and  say,  I  very  'appy 
to  see  him,  and  stay  at  home.' — Den  I  say,  '  Missy  O'Bottom, 


9.32  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 


'pose  massa  not  come  soon  as  he  take  one  two  glass  grog,  cut 
my  head  off.'     Dat  all,  sar." 

"  That's  all,  is  it?  A  pretty  scrape  you  have  got  me  into, 
you  scoundrel !     What's  to  be  done  now  ?" 

"Why,  let's  have  a  glass  of  grog  first,  Cockle,"  replied 
I,  "we've  been  waiting  a  long  while  for  it,  and  we'll  then 
talk  the  matter  over." 

"  Bob,  you're  sensible,  and  the  old  woman  was  no  fool  in 
sending  the  liquor — it  requires  Dutch  courage  to  attack  such 
a  Dutch-built  old  schuyt ;  let's  get  the  cobwebs  out  of  our 
throats,  and  then  we  must  see  how  wTe  can  get  out  of  this 
scrape.  I  expect  that  I  shall  pay  '  dearly  for  my  whistle' 
this  time  I  wet  mine.     Now,  what's  to  be  done,  Bob?" 

"  I  think  that  you  had  better  leave  it  to  Moonshine," 
said  I. 

"  So  I  will. — Now,  sir,  as  you've  got  me  into  this  scrape, 
you  must  get  me  out  of  it. — D'ye  hear?" 

"Yes,  Massa  Cockle,  I  tink — but  no  ab  courage." 

"  I  understand  you,  you  sooty  fellow — here,  drink  this,  and 
see  if  it  will  brighten  up  your  wits.  He's  a  regular  turnpike, 
that  fellow  ;  everything  must  pay  toll." 

"Massa  Cockle,  I  tell  Missy  O'Bottom  dat  you  come  soon 
as  you  ab  two  glass  grog;  'pose  you  only  drink  one." 

"  That  won't  do,  Moonshine,  for  I'm  just  mixing  my 
second;  you  must  find  out  something  better." 

"  One  glass  grog,  massa,  gib  no  more  dan  one  tought — 
dat  you  ab — " 

"  Well,  then,  here's  another. — Now  recollect,  before  you 
drink  it,  you  are  to  get  me  out  of  this  scrape;  if  not,  you  get 
into  a  scrape,  for  I'll  beat  you  as — as  white  as  snow." 

"  'Pose  you  no  wash  nigger  white,  you  no  mangle  him 
white,  Massa  Cockle,"  added  Moonshine. 

"  The  fellow's  ironing  me,  Bob,  ar'n't  he?"  said  Cockle, 
laughing.  "  Now,  before  you  drink,  recollect  the  condi- 
tions." 


MOONSHINE.  233 

"Drink  first,  sar,  make  sure  of  dat,"  replied  Moonshine, 
swallowing  off  the  brandy;  "  tink  about  it  afterwards. — Eh! 
I  ab  it,"  cried  Moonshine,  who  disappeared,  and  Cockle  and 
I  continued  in  conversation  over  our  grog,  which,  to  sailors, 
is  acceptable  in  any  one  hour  in  the  twenty-four.  About 
ten  minutes  afterwards  Cockle  perceived  Moonshine  in  the 
little  front  garden.  "  There's  that  fellow,  Bob;  what  is  he 
about?" 

"  Only  picking  a  nosegay,  I  believe,"  replied  I,  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

"  The  rascal,  he  must  be  picking  all  my  chrysanthemums. 
Stop  him,  Bob." 

But  Moonshine  vaulted  over  the  low  pales,  and  there  was 
no  stopping  him.  It  wras  nearly  an  hour  before  he  returned ; 
and  when  he  came  in,  wre  found  that  he  was  dressed  out  in 
his  best,  looking  quite  a  dandy,  and  with  some  of  his  mas- 
ter's finest  flowers,  in  a  large  nosegay,  sticking  in  his  waist- 
coat. 

"All  right,  sar,  all  right;  dat  last  glass  grog  gib  me  fine 
idee;  you  nebber  ab  more  trouble  'bout  Missy  O'Bottom." 

"Well,  let's  hear,"  said  Cockle. 

"  I  dress  mysel  berry  'pruce,  as  you  see,  massa.  I  take 
nosegay — " 

"  Yes,  I  see  that,  and  be  hanged  to  you." 

"  Nebber  mind,  Massa  Cockle.  I  say  to  Missy  O'Bottom, 
'  Massa  no  able  come,  he  very  sorry,  so  he  send  me ;'  'Well,' 
she  say,  'what  you  ab  to  say?  sit  down,  Moonshine,  you  very- 
nice  man.'  Den  I  say,  'Massa  Cockle  lub  you  very  much; 
he  tink  all  day  how  he  make  you  'appy ;  den  he  say,  Missy 
O'Bottom  very  fine  'oman,  make  very  fine  wife.'  Den  Missy 
O'Bottom  say,  "Top  a  moment,'  and  she  bring  a  bottel  from 
cupboard,  and  me  drink  someting  did  make  'tomach  feel 
really  warm ;  and  den  she  say,  '  Moonshine,  what  you  massa 
say?'  den  I  say,  Massa  say,  'You  fine  'oman,  make  good 
wife;'  but  he  shake  urn  head,  and  say,  'I  very  old  man,  no 

20* 


234  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

good  for  noting;  I  tink  all  day  how  I  make  her  'appy,  and  I 
find  out — Moonshine,  you  young  man,  you  'andsome  feller, 
you  good  servant,  I  not  like  you  go  way,  but  I  tink  you  make 
Missy  O'Bottom  very  fine  'usband  ;  so  I  not  care  for  myself; 
you  go  to  Missy  O'Bottom,  and  tell  I  send  you,  dat  I  part 
wid  you,  and  give  you  to  her  for  'usband.'  " 

Cockle  and  I  burst  out  laughing.  "  Well,  and  what  did 
Mrs.  Rowbottom  say  to  that  ?" 

"  She  jump  up,  and  try  to  catch  me  hair,  but  I  bob  my 
head,  and  she  miss;  den  she  say,  'You  filthy  black  rascal, 
you  tell  you  massa,  'pose  he  ever  come  here,  I  break  his 
white  bald  pate;  and  'pose  you  ever  come  here,  I  smash  you 
woolly  black  skull.'— Dat  all,  Massa  Cockle;  you  see  all 
right  now,  and  I  quite  dry  wid  talking." 

"  All  right!  do  you  call  it !  I  never  meant  to  quarrel  with 
the  old  woman;  what  d'ye  think,  Bob — is  it  all  right?" 

"  Why,  you  must  either  have  quarreled  with  her,  or  mar- 
ried her;  that's  clear." 

"  Well,  then,  I'm  clear  of  her,  and  so  it's  all  right.  It  a'n't 
every  man  who  can  get  out  of  matrimony  by  sacrificing  a 
nosegay  and  two  glasses  of  grog." 

"  Tree  glasses,  Massa  Cockle,"  said  Moonshine. 
"Well,  three  glasses;  here  it  is,  you  dog,  and  it's  dog 
cheap,  too.     Thank  God,  next  Wednesday  's  quarter  day. 
Bob,  you  must  dine  with  me — cut  the  service  for  to-day." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  I ;  "  and  I'll  salve  my  con- 
science by  walking  the  beach  all  night ;  but,  Cockle,  look- 
here,  there  is  but  a  drop  in  the  bottle,  and  you  have  no  more. 
I  am  like  you,  with  a  clean  swept  hold.  You  acknowledge 
the  difficulty?" 

"  It  stares  me  in  the  face,  Bob ;  what  must  be  done?" 
"I'll  tell  you  — in  the  first  place,   what   have    you   for 
dinner?" 

"  Moonshine,  what  have  we  got  for  dinner?" 


MOONSHINE.  235 

''Dinner,  sar?  me  not  yet  tink  about  dinner.     What  you 
like  to  ab,  sar?" 

"What  have  we  got  in  the  house,  Moonshine?" 
"  Let  me  see,  sar;  first  place,  we  ab  very  fine  piece  pick- 
lum  pork  ;  den  we  hab  picklum  pork ;  and  den— let  me  tink 
— den  we  ab,  we  hab  picklum  pork,  sar." 

"  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  Bob,  that  we  have  no- 
thing but  a  piece  of  pickled  pork  ;  can  you  dine  of  that  ?' 
"  Can  a  duck  swim,  Cockle  ?" 

"  Please,  sar,  we  ab  plenty  pea  for  dog  baddy,'''  said  Moon- 
shine. 

"  Well,  then,  Cockle,  as  all  that  is  required  is  to  put  the 
pot  on  the  fire,  you  can  probably  spare  Moonshine,  after  he 
has  done  that,  and  we  will  look  to  the  cookery ;  start  him  off 
with  a  note  to  Mr.  Johns,  and  he  can  bring  back  a  couple  of 
bottles  from  my  quarters." 

"  Really  dat  very  fine  tought,  Massa  Farren  ;  I  put  in  pork, 
and  den  I  go  and  come  back  in  one  hour." 

"  That  you  never  will,  Mr.  Moonshine  ;  what's  o'clock 
now  ?  Mercy  on  us,  how  time  flies  in  your  company,  Cockle  ; 
it  is  nearly  four  o'clock ;  it  will  be  dark  at  six." 

"  Nebber  mind,  sar,  me  always  ab  moonshine  whereber  I 
go,"  said  the  black,  showing  his  teeth. 

"  It  will  take  two  hours  to  boil  the  pork,  Bob  ;  that  fellow 
has  been  so  busy  this  morning,  that  he  has  quite  forgot  the 

dinner." 

"All  you  business,  Massa  Cockle." 

"Very  true  ;  but  now  start  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  come 
back  as  soon  as  you  can  ;  here's  the  note." 

Moonshine  took  the  note,  looked  at  the  direction,  as  if  he 
could  read  it,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  seen  to  depart. 

"And  now,  Cockle,"  said  I,  "as  Moonshine  will  be 
gone  some  time,  suppose  you  spin  us  a  yarn  to  pass  away  the 

time." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Bob,  I  am  not  quite  so  good  at  that  as  I 


236  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

used  to  be.     I've  an  idea  that  when  my  pate  became  bald, 
my  memory  oozed  away  by  insensible  perspiration." 

"  Never  mind,  you  must  have  something  left ;  you  can't 
be  quite  empty." 

"  No,  but  my  tumbler  is  ;  so  I'll  just  fill  that  up,  and  then 
I'll  tell  you  how  it  was  that  I  came  to  go  to  sea." 

"  The  very  thing  that  I  should  like  to  hear  above  all  others." 

"Well,  then,  you  must  know  that,  like  cockles  in  general, 
I  was  born  on  the  sea-shore,  just  a  quarter  of  a  mile  out  of 
Dover,  towards  Shakspeare's  Cliff.  My  father  was  a  fisher- 
man by  profession,  and  a  smuggler  by  practice ;  all  was  fish 
that  came  to  his  net ;  but  his  cottage  was  small;  he  was  sup- 
posed to  be  very  poor,  and  a  very  bad  fisherman,  for  he  sel- 
dom brought  home  many ;  but  there  was  a  reason  for  that, 
he  very  seldom  put  his  nets  overboard.  His  chief  business 
lay  in  taking  out  of  vessels  coming  down  channel,  goods, 
which  were  shipped  and  bonded  for  exportation,  and  running 
them  on  shore  again.  You  know,  Bob,  that  there  are  many 
articles  which  are  not  permitted  to  enter  even  upon  paying 
duty,  and  when  these  goods,  such  as  silks,  &c,  are  seized 
or  taken  in  prizes,  they  are  sold  for  exportation.  Now,  it  was 
then  the  custom  for  vessels  to  take  them  on  board  in  the  river, 
and  run  them  on  shore  as  they  went  down  channel,  and  the 
fishing-boats  were  usually  employed  for  this  service;  my 
father  was  a  well-known  hand  for  this  kind  of  work,  for  not 
being  suspected  he  was  always  fortunate  ;  of  course,  had  he 
once  been  caught,  they  would  have  had  their  eyes  upon  him 
after  he  had  suffered  his  punishment.  Now  the  way  my 
father  used  to  manage  was  this :  there  was  a  long  tunnel  drain 
from  some  houses  used  as  manufactories,  about  a  hundred 
yards  above  his  cottage,  which  extended  out  into  the  sea  at 
low  water  mark,  and  which  passed  on  one  side  of  our  cottage. 
My  father  had  cut  from  a  cellar  in  the  cottage  into  the  drain, 
and  as  it  was  large  enough  for  a  man  to  kneel  down  in,  he 
used  to  come  in  at  low  water  with  his  coble,  and  make  fast 


MOONSHINE.  237 

the  goods,  properly  secured  from  the  wet  and  dirt  in  tarpaulin 
bags,  to  a  rope,  which  led  from  the  cellar  to  the  sea  through 
the  drain.     When  the  water  had  flowed  sufficiently  to  cover 
the  mouth  of  the  drain,  he  then  threw  the  bags  overboard, 
and,  securing  the  boat,  went  to  the  cottage,  hauled  up  the 
articles,  and  secured  them  too ;  d'ye  understand  ?  my  father 
had  no  one  to  assist  him  but  my  brother,  who  was  a  stout 
fellow,  seven  years  older  than   myself,  and  my  mother,  who 
used  to  give  a  helping  hand  when  required  ;  and  thus  did  he 
keep  his  own  counsel,  and  grow  rich  :  when  all  was  right, 
he  got  his  boat  over  into  the  harbor,  and  having  secured, 
her,  he  came  home  as  innocent  as  a  lamb.     I  was  then  about 
eight  or  nine  years  old,  and  went  with  my  father  and  brother 
in  the  coble,  for  she  required  three  hands,  at  least,  to  manage 
her  properly,  and,  like  a  tin-pot,  although  not  very  big,  I 
was  very  useful.     Now  it  so  happened  that  my  father  had 
notice  that  a  brig,  laying  in  Dover  harbor,  would  sail  the 
next  day,  and  that  she  had  on  board  of  her  a  quantity  of  lace 
and  silks,  purchased  at  the  Dover  Custom-house  for  exporta- 
tion, which  he  was  to  put  on  shore  again  to  be  sent  up  to 
London.     The  sending  up  to  London  we  had  nothing  to  do 
with  ;  the  agent  at  Dover  managed  all  that ;  we  only  left  the 
articles  at  his  house,  and  then  received  the  money  on  the 
nail.     We  went   to  the   harbor,  where  we   found   the   brig 
hauling  out,  so  we  made  all  haste  to  get  away  before  her. 
It  blew  fresh  from  the  northward  and  eastward,  and  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  sea  running.     As  we  were  shoving  out, 
the  London  agent,  a  jolly  little  round-faced  fellow,  in  black 
clothes,  and  a  bald  white  head,  called  to  us,  and  said  that 
he  wanted  to  board  a  vessel  in  the  offing,  and  asked  whether 
we  would  take  him.     This  was  all  a  ruse,  as  he  intended  to 
no  on  board  of  the  brie:  with  us  to  settle  matters,  and  then 
return  in  the  pilot  boat.     Well,  we  hoisted  our  jib,  drew  aft 
our  foresheet,  and   were  soon  clear  of  the  harbor;  but  we 
found  that  there  was  a  devil  of  a  se'a  running,  and  more 


238  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

wind  than  we  bargained  for;  the  brig  came  out  of  the  har- 
bor with  a  flowing  sheet,  and  we  lowered  down  the  foresail 
to  reef  it — father  and  brother  busy  about  that,  while  I  stood 
at  the  helm,  when  the  agent  said  to  me,  'when  do  you  mean 
to  make  a  voyage  ?'  '  Sooner  than  father  thinks  for,'  said  I, 
'  for  I  want  to  see  the  world.'  It  was  sooner  than  I  thought 
for  too,  as  you  shall  hear.  As  soon  as  the  brig  wTas  well 
out,  we  ran  down  to  her,  and  with  some  difficulty  my  father 
and  the  agent  got  on  board,  for  the  sea  was  high  and  cross, 
the  tide  setting  against  the  wind  ;  my  brother  and  I  were  left 
in  the  boat  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  brig ;  but  as  my 
brother  was  casting  off  the  rope  forward,  his  leg  caught  in 
the  bight,  and  into  the  sea  he  went ;  however,  they  hauled 
him  on  board,  leaving  me  alone  in  the  coble.  It  was  not  of 
much  consequence,  as  I  could  manage  to  follow  before  the 
wind  under  easy  sail,  without  assistance  ;  so  I  kept  her  in 
the  wake  of  the  brig,  both  of  us  running  nearly  before  it  at 
the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hour,  waiting  till  my  father  should 
have  made  up  his  packages,  of  a  proper  size  to  walk  through 
the  tunnel  drain. 

"  The  channel  was  full  of  ships,  for  the  westerly  winds 
had  detained  them  for  a  long  time.  I  had  followed  the  brig 
about  an  hour,  when  the  agent  went  on  shore  in  a  pilot  boat, 
and  I  expected  my  father  would  soon  be  ready ;  then  the 
wind  veered  more  towards  the  southward,  with  dirt ;  at  last 
it  came  on  foggy,  and  I  could  hardly  see  the  brig,  and,  as 
it  rained  hard  and  blew  harder,  I  wished  that  my  father  was 
ready,  for  my  arms  ached  with  steering  the  coble  for  so  long 
a  while.  I  could  not  leave  the  helm,  so  I  steered  on  at  a 
black  lump,  as  the  brig  looked  through  the  fog  ;  at  last  the 
fog  was  so  thick  that  I  could  not  see  a  yard  beyond  the  boat, 
and  I  hardly  knew  how  to  steer.  I  began  to  be  frightened, 
tired,  and  cold,  and  hungry  I  certainly  was.  Well,  I  steered 
on  for  more  than  an  hour,  when  the  fog  cleared  up  a  little, 
and  then  I  saw  the  stern  of  the  brig  just  before  me.     My 


MOONSHINE.  239 

little  heart  jumped  with  delight ;  and  I  expected  that  she 
would  round  to  immediately,  and  that  my  father  would  prasie 
me  for  my  conduct ;  and,  what  was  still  more  to  the  purpose, 
that  I  should  get  something  to  eat  and  drink.     But  no :   she 
steered  on  right  down  channel,  and  I  followed  for  more  than 
an  hour  more,  when  it   came  on  to  blow  very  hard,  and  I 
could  scarcely  manage  the  boat — she  pulled  my  little  arms 
off,  and  I  was  quite  exhausted.     The  weather  now  cleared 
up,  and  I  could  make  out  the  vessel  plainly  ;   and  I  imme- 
diately discovered  that  it  was  not  the  brig,  but  a  bark  which 
I  had  got  hold  of  in  the  fog,  so  that  I  did  not  know  what  to 
do  ;  but  I  did  as  most  boys  of  nine  years  old  would  have  done 
who  were  frightened;  I  sat  down  and  cried,  still,  however, 
keeping  the  tiller  in  my  hand  and  steering  as  well  as  I  could. 
At  last,  I  could  hold  it  no  longer ;  I  ran  forward,  let  go  the 
fore  and  jib  haulyards  and  hauled  down  the  sails  ;  drag  them 
into  the  boat  I  could  not,  and  there  I  was,  like  a  young  bear 
adrift  in  a  washing-tub.     I  looked  all  round  me,  and  there 
were  no  vessels  near ;  the  bark  had  left  me  two  miles  astern ; 
it  was  blowing  a  gale  from  the  s.  e.,  with  a  heavy  sea;  the 
gulls  and  sea  birds  wheeled  and  screamed  in  the  storm;  and, 
as  I  thought,  when  they  came    close  to  me,  looked   at  me 
with  their  keen   eyes,  as   much   as  to  say,  '  What  the  devil 
are  you  doing  there  ?'     The  boat  was  as  light  as  a  cork,  and 
although   she   was  tossed   and   rolled   about   so  that   I   was 
obliged  to  hold  on,  she  shipped  no  water  of  any  consequence, 
for  the  jib  in  the  water  forward  had  brought  her  head  to-wind, 
and  acted  as  a  sort  of  floating  anchor.     At  last  there  was 
nothing  in  sight,  so  I  laid   down   at  the   bottom  of  the  boat 
and  fell  asleep.      It  was  daylight  before  I  awoke,  and  then 
I  got  up  and  looked   round  me — it  blew  harder  than  ever ; 
and,  although  there  were  some  vessels  at  a  distance,  scud- 
ding before  the  gale,  they  did  not  mind,  or  perhaps  see  me. 
I  sat  very  melancholy  the  whole  day;  the  tears  ran  down  my 
cheeks;  my  eyes  were  full  of  salt  from  the  spray — I  saw  at 


240  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

last  nothing  but  the  roaring  and  tumbling  waves.     I  prayed 
every  prayer  I  knew,  that  is,  I  said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  the 
Belief,  and  as  much  of  the   Catechism  as  I  could  recollect. 
It  rained  in  torrents — I  was  wet,  starving,   and   miserably 
cold.     At  night  I  again  fell  asleep  from  exhaustion.     The 
morning  broke  again,  and  the  sun  shone;  the  gale  was  break- 
ing off,  and  I  felt  more  cheered  ;  but  I  was  now  ravenous 
from  hunger,  as  well  as  choking  from  thirst,  and  I  was  so 
weak  that  I  could  scarcely  stand.     I  looked  round  me  every 
now  and  then,  and  lay  down  again.     In  the  afternoon  I  saw 
a  large  vessel  standing  right  for  me  ;  this  gave  me  courage 
and  strength.     I  stood   up  and  waved  my  hat,  and  they  saw 
me — the  sea  was  still  running  very  high,  but  the  wind  had 
gone  down.     She  rounded-to  so  as  to  bring  me  under  her 
lee.     Send  a  boat  she  could  not,  but  the  sea  bore  her  down 
upon  me,  and  I  was  soon  close  to  her.     Men  in  the  chains 
were   ready  with  ropes,  and  I  knew  that  this  was  my  only 
chance.     At  last,  a  very  heavy  sea  bore  her  right  down  upon 
the  boat,  lurching  over  on  her  beam  ends  ;  her  main  chains 
struck  the  boat  and  sent  her  down,  while  I  was  seized  by 
the  scuff  of  the  neck  by  two  of  the  seamen,  and  borne  aloft  by 
them  as  the  vessel  returned  to  the  weather-roll.     They  hauled 
me  in,  and  I  was  safe.     It  was  neck  or  nothing  with  me 
then,  wasn't  it,  Bob  ?" 

"It  was,  indeed,  a  miraculous  escape,  Cockle." 

"Well,  as  soon  as  they  had  given  me  something  to  eat,  I 
told  my  story  : — and  it  appeared  that  she  was  an  East  India- 
man  running  down  Channel,  and  not  likely  to  meet  with  any 
thing  to  send  me  back  again.  The  passengers,  especially 
the  ladies,  were  very  kind  to  me:  and  as  there  was  no  help 
for  it,  why,  I  took  my  first  voyage  to  the  East  Indies." 

"And  your  father  and  your  brother?" 

"  Why,  when  I  met  them,  which  I  did  about  six  years 
afterwards,  I  found  that  they  had  been  in  much  the  same 
predicament,  having  lost  the  coble,  and  the  weather  being 


MOONSHTNE.  241 

so  bad  that  they  could  not  get  on  shore  again.  As  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  they  took  their  first  voyage  to  the  West 
Indies ;  so  there  was  a  dispersion  of  a  united  family — two 
went  west,  one  went  east,  coble  went  down,  and  mother, 
after  waiting  a  month  or  two,  and  supposing  father  dead, 
went  off  with  a  soldier.  All  dispersed  by  one  confounded 
gale  of  wind  from  the  northward  and  eastward,  so  that's  the 
way  that  I  went  to  sea,  Bob.  And  now  it's  time  that  Moon- 
shine was  back." 

But  Moonshine  kept  us  waiting  for  some  time :  when  he 
returned  it  was  then  quite  dark,  and  we  had  lighted  candles, 
anxiously  waiting  for  him  ;  for  not  only  was  the  bottle  empty, 
but  we  were  very  hungry.  At  last  we  heard  a  conversation 
at  the  gate,  and  Moonshine  made  his  appearance  with  the 
two  bottles  of  spirits,  and  appeared  himself  to  be  also  in  high 
spirits.  The  pork  and  peas  pudding  soon  were  on  the  table. 
We  dined  heartily,  and  were  sitting  over  the  latter  part  of 
the  first  bottle  in  conversation,  it  being  near  upon  the  ele- 
venth hour,  when  we  heard  a  noise  at  the  gate — observed 
some  figures  of  men,  who  stayed  a  short  time  and  then  dis- 
appeared. The  door  opened,  and  Moonshine  went  out.  In 
a  few  seconds  he  returned,  bringing  in  his  arms  an  anker  of 
spirits,  which  he  laid  on  the  floor,  grinning  so  wide  that  his 
head  appeared  half  off.  Without  saying  a  word,  he  left  the 
room  and  returned  with  another. 

"Why,  what  the  devil's  this?"  cried  Cockle. 

Moonshine  made  no  answer,  but  went  out  and  in  until  he 
had  brought  six  ankers  in,  one  after  another,  which  he  placed 
in  a  row  on  the  floor.  He  then  shut  the  outside  door,  bolted 
it,  came  in,  and  seating  himself  on  one  of  the  tubs,  laughed 
to  an  excess  which  compelled  him  to  hold  his  s^des  ;  during 
which  Cockle  and  I  were  in  a  state  of  astonishment  and 
suspense. 

"  Where  the  devil  did  all  this  come  from  ?"  cried  Cockle, 
21 


242  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

actually  getting  out  of  his  easy  chair.     "  Tell  me,  sir,  or 
by " 

"  I  tell  you  all,  Massa  Cockle  : — you  find  me  better  friend 
dan  Missy  O'Bottom.  Now  you  ab  plenty,  and  nebber  need 
scold  Moonshine  'pose  he  take  lilly  drap.  I  get  all  dis  pre- 
sent to  you,  Massa  Cockle." 

I  felt  a  great  degree  of  anxiety,  and  pressed  Moonshine  to 
tell  his  story. 

"  I  tell  you  all,  sar.  When  I  come  back  wid  de  two  bottel 
I  meet  plenty  men  wid  de  tubs:  dey  say,  'D — n  you,  who 
be  you?'  I  say,  'I  come  from  station:  bring  massa  two 
bottel,  and  I  show  urn.'  Den  dey  say,  '  Where  you  massa  ?' 
and  I  say,  '  at  una  house  at  Ryde.'  Den  dey  tink  dat  you 
my  massa,  Massa  Farren,  so  dey  say,  '  Yes,  we  know  dat, 
we  watch  him  dere;  but  now  you  tell,  so  we  beat  you  dead.' 
Den  I  say, '  What  for  dat ;  massa  like  drink,  why  you  no  gib 
massa  some  tub,  and  den  he  never  say  noting,  only  make 
fuss  some  time,  'cause  of  Admirality.'  Den  dey  say,  'you 
sure  of  dat?'  and  I  say,  '  quite  sure  massa  nebber  say  one 
word.'  Den  dey  talk  long  while  ;  last,  dey  come  and  say, 
'You  come  wid  us  and  show  massa  house.'  So  two  men 
come  wid  me,  and  when  dey  come  to  gate,  I  say,  '  Dis  massa 
house  when  he  live  at  Ryde,  and  dere  you  see  massa  ;' — and 
I  point  to  Massa  Cockle,  but  dey  see  Massa  Farren — so  dey 
say,  '  All  very  good ;  tree,  four  hour  more,  you  find  six  tub 
here ;  tell  you  massa  dat  every  time  run  tub,  he  alway  hab 
six;'  den  dey  go  way,  den  dey  come  back,  leave  tub  ;  dat 
all,  massa." 

"  You  rascal !"  exclaimed  I,  rising  up,  "  so  you  have  com- 
promised me;  why  I  shall  lose  my  commission  if  found  out." 

"No,  sar;  nobody  wrong  but  de  smuggler;  dey  make  a 
lilly  mistake;  case  you  brought  to  court-martial,  I  gib  evi- 
dence, and  den  I  clear  you." 

"But  what  must  we  do  with  these  tubs,  Cockle?"  said  I, 
appealing  to  him. 


MOONSHINE.  243 

"  Do,  Bob ;  why  they  are  a  present — a  very  welcome  one, 
and  a  very  handsome  one  in  the  bargain.  I  shall  not  keep 
them,  I  pledge  you  my  word  ;  let  that  satisfy  you — they  shall 
all  \at  fairly  entered." 

"  Upon  that  condition,  Cockle,"  I  replied,  "  I  shall  of  course 
not  give  information  against  you."  (I  knew  full  well  what 
he  meant  by  saying  he  would  not  keep  them.) 

"  How  I  do,  Massa  Cockle  ?"  said  Moonshine,  with  a  grave 
face ;  "  I  take  um  to  the  custom-house  to-night  or  to-morrow 
marning?" 

"  To-morrow,  Moonshine,"  replied  Cockle;  "at  present 
just  put  them  out  of  sight." 

I  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  make  any  further  inquiries; 
but  I  afterwards  discovered  that  the  smugglers,  true  to  their 
word,  and  still  in  error,  continued  to  leave  six  tubs  in  old 
Cockle's  garden  whenever  they  succeeded  in  running  a  cargo, 
which,  notwithstanding  all  our  endeavors,  they  constantly 
did.  One  piece  of  information  I  gained  from  this  affair, 
which  was,  the  number  of  cargoes,  which  were  run  com- 
pared to  those  which  were  seized  during  the  remainder  of 
the  time  I  was  on  that  station,  and  found  it  to  be  in  the  pro- 
portion of  ten  to  one.  The  cargoes  run  were  calculated  by 
the  observations  of  old  Cockle,  who,  when  I  called  upon  him, 
used  to  say  very  quietly,  "  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  run 
a  cargo  last  night,  Bob,  in  spite  of  all  your  vigilance — was 
it  very  dark?" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  I,  looking  at  the  demure  face 
of  the  negro,  "I  suspect  it  was  Moonshine." 


OPHELIA 


BT    MRS.    JAMIESON. 


Ophelia — poor  Ophelia!  oh,  far  too  soft,  too  good,  too  fair, 
to  be  cast  among  the  briars  of  this  working-day  world,  and 
fall  and  bleed  upon  the  thorns  of  life!  What  shall  be  said 
of  her?  For  eloquence  is  mute  before  her!  Like  a  strain 
of  sweet  sad  music  which  comes  floating  by  us  on  the  wings 
of  night  and  silence,  and  which  we  rather  feel  than  hear — 
like  the  exhalation  of  the  violet  dying  even  upon  the  sense 
it  charms — like  the  snow-flake  dissolved  in  air  before  it  has 
caught  a  stain  of  earth — like  the  light  surf  severed  from  the 
billow,  which  a  breath  disperses — such  is  the  character  of 
Ophelia:  so  exquisitely  delicate,  it  seems  as  if  a  touch  would 
profane  it ;  so  sanctified  in  our  thoughts  by  the  last  and  worst 
of  human  woes,  that  we  scarcely  dare  to  consider  it  too 
deeply.  The  love  of  Ophelia,  which  she  never  once  con- 
fesses, is  like  a  secret  which  we  have  stolen  from  her,  and 
which  ought  to  die  upon  our  hearts  as  upon  her  own. 

Her  sorrow  asks  not  words,  but  tears;  and  her  madness  has 
precisely  the  same  effect  that  would  be  produced  by  the 
spectacle  of  real  insanity,  if  brought  before  us :  we  feel  in- 
clined to  turn  away  and  veil  our  eyes  in  reverential  pity  and 
too  painful  sympathy.  *  *  *  It  is  the  helplessness  of 
Ophelia,  arising  merely  from  her  innocence,  and  pictured 
without  any  indication  of  weakness,  which  melts  us  with 
such  profound  pity.     Ophelia  is  so  young,  that  neither  her 


J 


,        ..       ... 


OPHELIA.  245 

mind  nor  her  person  has  attained  maturity;  she  is  not  aware 
of  the  nature  of  her  own  feelings;  they  are  prematurely  de- 
veloped in  their  full  force  before  she  had  strength  to  bear 
them,  and  love  and  grief  together  rend  and  shatter  the  frail 
texture  of  her  existence  like  the  burning  fluid  poured  into  a 
crystal  vase.  She  says  very  little,  and  what  she  does  say 
seems  intended  rather  to  hide  than  to  reveal  the  emotions  of 
her  heart;  yet  in  those  few  words  we  are  made  as  perfectly 
acquainted  with  her  character,  and  with  what  is  passing  in 
her  mind,  as  if  she  had  thrown  forth  her  whole  soul  with  all 
the  glowing  eloquence  of  Juliet.     *     *  Besides  its  in- 

trinsic loveliness,  the  character  of  Ophelia  has  a  relative 
beauty  and  delicacy,  when  considered  in  relation  to  that  of 
Hamlet,  which  is  the  delineation  of  a  man  of  genius  in  con- 
test with  the  powers  of  this  world.  Ophelia,  the  young,  fair, 
inexperienced  girl,  facile  to  every  impression,  fond  in  her 
simplicity,  and  credulous  in  her  innocence,  loves  Hamlet; 
not  for  what  he  is  in  himself,  but  for  that  which  he  appears  to 
her — the  gentle,  accomplished  prince,  upon  whom  she  has 
been  accustomed  to  see  all  eyes  fixed  in  hope  and  admiration, 
the  star  of  the  court  in  which  she  moves,  the  first  who  has 
ever  whispered  soft  vows  in  her  ear;  and  what  can  be  more 
natural?     In  the  soliloquy,  where  she  says, 

"And  I  of  la  I  t  deject  and  wretehe  I 

That  sucked  the  honey  of  his  music  vows," 

are  the  only  allusions  to  herself  and  her  own  feelings  in  the 
course  of  the  play;  and  these,  uttered  almost  without  con- 
sciousness on  her  own  part,  contain  the  revelation  of  a  life 
of  love,  and  disclose  the  burden  of  a  heart  bursting  with  its 
own  unuttered  griefs.  She  believes  Hamlet  crazed  ;  she  is 
repulsed,  she  is  forsaken,  she  is  outraged,  where  she  had 
bestowed  her  young  heart,  with  all  its  hopes  and  wishes;  her 
father  is  slain  by  the  hand  of  her  lover,  as  it  is  supposed,  in 

21* 


246  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

a  paroxysm  of  insanity ;  she  is  entangled  inextricably  in  a 
web  of  horrors  which  she  cannot  even  comprehend,  and  the 
result  seems  inevitable. 

Of  her  subsequent  madness  what  can  be  said  ?  What  an 
astonishing — what  an  affecting  picture  of  a  mind  utterly, 
hopelessly  wrecked!  Past  hope— past  cure!  There  is  the 
frenzy  of  excited  passion — there  is  the  madness  caused  by 
intense  and  continued  thought  — there  is  the  delirium  of 
fevered  nerves  ;  but  Ophelia's  madness  is  distinct  from  these  ; 
it  is  not  the  suspension,  but  the  utter  destruction  of  the  rea- 
soning powers;  it  is  the  total  imbecility,  which,  as  medical 
people  well  know,  too  frequently  follows  some  terrible  shock 
to  the  spirits. 

Her  sweet  mind  lies  in  fragments  before  us — a  pitiful 
spectacle!  Her  wild,  rambling  fancies;  her  aimless,  broken 
speeches ;  her  quick  transitions  from  gayety  to  sadness — each 
equally  purposeless  and  causeless  ;  her  snatches  of  old  bal- 
lads, such  as  perhaps  her  nurse  sang  her  to  sleep  with  in  her 
infancy — are  all  so  true  to  the  life,  that  we  forget  to  wonder 
and  can  only  weep.  It  belonged  to  Shakspeare  alone  so  to 
temper  such  a  picture  that  we  can  endure  to  dwell  upon  it. 

That  in  her  madness  she  should  exchange  her  bashful 
silence  for  empty  babbling,  her  sweet  maidenly  demeanor 
for  the  impatient  restlessness  that  spurns  at  straws,  and  say 
and  sing  precisely  what  she  never  would  or  could  have 
uttered  had  she  been  in  possession  of  her  reason,  is  so  far 
from  being  an  impropriety,  that  it  is  an  additional  stroke  of 
nature.  It  is  one  of  the  symptoms  in  this  species  of  insanity, 
as  we  are  assured  by  physicians. 


KISHNA    KOMARI 

A  TALE  OF  RAJAST  HAN. 


BY   LEITCH    RITCHIE. 


Among  the  many  romantic  passages  which  adorn  the  bloody 
page  of  Rajpoot  history,  the  story  of  Kishna  and  her  Bracelet 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting.  Colonel  Tod,  in  his  Annals 
of  Rajast'han,  lately  published,*  has  opened  to  the  European 
reader  a  vast  fund  both  of  amusement  and  instruction, 
hitherto  guarded  from  curiosity  by  the  difficulties  of  a  foreign 
language,  and  scattered  over  the  immense  surface  of  India 
in  local  tradition,  and  in  the  songs  of  the  wandering  min- 
strels. 

Kishna  was  the  daughter  of  the  Raja  of  Shapoora,  one  ot 
the  most  powerful  of  the  chiefs  of  Mewar.  She  was  said  to 
be  the  most  beautiful  damsel  of  Rajast'han;  and  although  the 
number  of  those  who  had  seen  her  was  of  course  small,  no 
face  had  been  better  known  or  more  minutely  described  than 
hers  since  the  days  of  the  celebrated  Meera  Bae.  Her  mo- 
tion was  described  by  some  as  resembling  the  graceful  pace 
of  the  young  Elephant ;  others  likened  her  eyes  to  the  blue 

•  It  is  to  this  highly  valuable  work  that  the  author  of  these  pages  ha-  been 

mainly  indebted  tor  e  in  tin-  following  episode  in  the  border  In 

.Mewar.  here  |  I  as  exhibiting  some  very  striking  illustrations  of  the 

manners  and  chara  :tei  of  the  military  caste  of  Hindostan. 


248  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

water-lily  gleaming  through  the  dew  of  early  morning,  while 
others  again  compared  them  to  those  of  the  fawn-eyed  Radha, 
the  mortal  love  of  Heri.  This  precious  gem  was  intended  by 
her  father  to  ornament  the  rawula*  of  the  Lord  of  Pokurna, 
a  turbulent  and  powerful  chief,  whose  family  had  long  been 
a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  Ranas  of  Oodipoor.  The  projected 
union,  like  that  of  most  marriages  in  Rajast'han,  was  a  mere 
political  alliance ;  and  Kishna,  who  was  of  royal  descent, 
was  understood  to  be  a  peace-offering  to  the  Pokurna  chief. 

Not  long  before,  however,  very  different  views  had  been 
entertained  by  her  father  on  this  subject;  and  it  was  thought 
that  in  yielding  to  the  influence  of  his  royal  kinsman,  the 
Rana,  he  had  acted  a  part  more  consistent  with  public  than 
with  personal  policy.  The  Komari  of  the  house  of  Shapoora,f 
in  fact,  had  been  looked  upon  from  her  birth  as  the  future  wife 
of  the  Ranawut  chief  of  Amergurh,  between  whom  and  the 
raja  one  of  those  deadly  feuds  had  existed  for  half  a  century, 
which  in  India  can  only  be  put  an  end  to  by  the  offer  of  a 
daughter  in  marriage  from  the  aggressor.  So  serious  was 
the  enmity  between  the  two  houses  that  the  whole  country 
was  shaken  by  it.  Commerce  was  interrupted,  and  agricul- 
ture nearly  destroyed.  A  wide  area,  embracing  the  borders 
of  the  two  demesnes,  seemed  like  a  battle  common,  a  de- 
batable land  of  strife  and  bloodshed,  where  midnight  fires 
pointed  out  to  the  alarmed  peasant  the  track  of  the  plunderer, 
and  where  in  the  day  time  the  banners  of  the  rival  houses 

*   Harem. 

t  Our  heroine  must  not  be  confounded  with  another  Kishna  Komari  (the 
virgin  Kishna)  daughter  of  the  Rana  Bheem,  by  a  mother  of  the  Chawura 
race,  the  ancient  kings  of  Anhulwara.  This  young  princess  was  sought  in 
marriage  by  the  whole  chivalry  of  India  at  the  same  moment,  who  flew  to 
arms  to  make  good  their  claim.  Foor  Kishna,  in  all  the  loveliness  and  inno- 
cence of  sixteen,  was  at  length  ruthlessly  murdered  by  A  jit  Sing,  her  father's 
minister,  as  the  only  expedient  he  could  hit  upon  to  settle  the  claims  of  tin 
rivals.  This  dreadful  villain,  we  believe,  still  pollutes  the  atmosphere  of  the 
world  with  his  accursed  breath. 


KISIINA    KOMARI.  249 

flaunted  in  the  sunbeam,  as  the  chiefs  led  on  the  chivalry  of 
their  tribes  to  battle. 

At  first  view  the  contest  might  have  been  thought  to  be 
exceedingly  unequal.  The  raja  was  a  man  of  vast  posses- 
sions, and  high  court  influence ;  his  plains  were  enriched 
with  fifty  villages ;  and  at  the  sound  of  his  sankh*  two  thou- 
sand men  girded  on  their  swords.  His  silleh-khanehf  was 
said  to  be  the  most  complete  in  Mewar.  There  might  be 
seen  every  species  of  armor  known  in  India,  arranged  with 
the  nicest  regularity.  The  match-lock  of  Boondi,  inlaid  with 
mother  of  pearl  and  gold — the  shield  of  the  rhinoceros  hide, 
beautifully  painted  and  enameled — the  bow  of  the  buffalo 
horn — the  favorite  sirohi,  slightly  curved  like  the  blade  of 
Damascus — with  a  thousand  varieties  of  spear,  sabre,  and 
dagger — all  glittered  in  their  appointed  place,  and  all  were 
distinguished  by  peculiar  names  commemorative  of  some 
passage  in  their  history.  His  palace,  as  a  work  of  architect- 
ure, was  unrivaled  out  of  Yoginipoor.ij:  Its  lengthened  suites 
of  colonnaded  and  sculptured  halls,  and  its  vast  terraces  slop- 
ing with  marble  steps  to  the  river's  edge,  gave  one  the. idea 
of  some  enchanted  fabric  described  in  the  songs  of  the  poets ; 
while  its  gardens,  no  less  worthy  of  admiration,  were  studded 
with  fountains  and  reservoirs,  and  diversified  with  a  hundred 
rivulets,  which  leaped  in  every  direction  across  their  bosom. 
There  the  golden  chump  a  diffused  its  feverish  aroma,  so 
overpowering,  that  if  the  leaves  are  laid  on  the  pillow  at 
night,  they  will  produce  headache ;  the  mogra,  too,  and  the 
chamaili  or  jasmine,  hung  their  rich  blossoms  around;  and 
the  bara-masha,  the  very  queen  of  flowers,  presented  with  its 
undying  bloom  an  image  of  the  joys  of  Paradise. 

The  character  of  the  raja  might  be  guessed  from  that  of 
his  possessions.  The  stern  simplicity  of  ancient  times  had 
given  way  before  the  voluptuous  example  of  the  Mohani- 

*   War-shelL  f  Armory.  J  Delhi. 


250  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

medan  tribes.  The  houris  of  an  earthly  heaven  had  usurped,  in 
the  dreams  of  the  Rajpoot  warrior,  the  place  of  those  celestial 
apsaras,  whose  eyes,  beaming  from  the  world  of  bliss,  had 
once  been  the  guiding  stars  which  led  on  his  ancestors  to  con- 
quest or  death.  He  vied  with  the  other  nobles  of  the  Rana's 
court  rather  in  the  costliness  than  the  sharpness  of  his 
kirban  ;*  and  his  forays  among  the  neighboring  chiefs  were 
directed  not  to  the  enemies  of  his  policy  or  honor,  but  to 
those  whose  rawula  was  said  to  boast  a  fair  wife  or  a  black- 
eyed  daughter.  Ample  as  were  the  estates  of  Shapoora,  the 
revenue  of  their  lord  could  but  ill  supply  the  extravagance 
of  so  voluptuous  a  housekeeping;  and  recourse,  therefore, 
was  had  with  reckless  tyranny  to  the  Rekwalee,  answering 
to  the  salvamento  of  feudal  Europe,  and  in  some  respects  to 
the  Black  Mail  of  the  Scottish  Highlands.  Sums  were  levied 
for  protection  from  the  very  disturbances  caused  by  the 
raja's  own  troops;  ruinous  tolls  were  demanded  on  every 
article  of  commerce  passing  through  his  territory;  and  to 
such  an  extent  of  petty  extortion  was  the  system  carried,  that 
throughout  his  demesne  not  only  fees  on  marriages  were 
taken,  but  a  dish  of  good  fare  bargained  for  at  every  wedding 
feast.  For  the  rest,  although  feared  and  hated  by  his  depend- 
ants, he  was  reckoned  a  brave  man,  and  a  loyal  Rajpoot, 
and  in  times  of  public  danger  no  member  of  his  court  was 
relied  on  more  implicitly  by  the  Rana  than  the  prince  of 
Shapoora. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Ranawut  chief,  the  lord  of  little 
more  than  his  own  rude  doorg,f  perched  like  an  eagle's  eyrie 
on  the  cliff,  was  a  man  of  altogether  another  stamp.  Resist- 
ing, either  from  obstinacy  or  principle,  the  stream  of  effemi- 
nate corruption  which  was  daily  sweeping  away  some  new 
portion  of  those  ancient  landmarks  of  Rajpoot  character, 
described  by  the  historians  of  Europe  as  incapable  of  change 

*   One  of  the  many  kinds  of  swords.  f  Mountain  fortress. 


KISIINA    KOMARI.  251 

or  decay,  he  formed  a  rampart  in  himself  against  the  en- 
croachments of  foreign  manners,  as  venerable,  and  seemingly 
as  secure  as  his  own  castled  mountains,  which  looked  frown- 
fully  down  upon  the  plains.    In  peace  his  trade  was  hunting; 
in  war,  his  simple  economy  was  amply  supplied  from  the  full 
barns  of  the  foe.     An  unsparing  enemy,  a  devoted  friend,  a 
condescending  master,  he  united  in  his  character  everything 
which  could  win  the  love  or  command  the  respect  of  his  bre- 
thren and  followers.    Secure  in  his  mountain  fastness,  perched 
on  the  bare  pinnacle  of  a  rock,  and  defended  by  large  swivels, 
but  still  more  by  immense  belts  of  forest,  he  laughed  at  the 
vain  threats  of  the  raja.     The  roads  which  led  to  this  alpine 
retreat  were  few  and  intricate.     They  winded  through  enor- 
mous chasms  of  the  mountain,  susceptible  of  defence  at  every 
step.    Sometimes  a  hut  built  upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff  would 
be  seen  watching,  as  if  with   prying   eyes,  the   unfrequent 
traveler,  and  a  half  naked  boy,  after  gazing  for  a  moment 
through  the  brushwood,  would   spring   off  like  a  wild  ante- 
lope, to   announce   at   the  next  station  the  approach  of  a 
stranger.    More  frequently,  however,  the  gaunt  wolf,  looking 
down  with  a  glare,  half  of  fear,  half  of  wistful  hunger,  was 
the  only  sentinel  visible  in  the  rude  demesne  ;  and  the  visitor, 
as  with  poised  spear  he  pursued  his  path  darkened  with  eter- 
nal shadow,  wished  the  distance  shorter  and  the  road  less 
dreary  to  the  doorg  of  Amergurh. 

Near  the  plains,  the  scene  was  wildly  beautiful.  A  large 
stream  winded  at  the  base  of  the  hills,  overhung  by  shady 
evergreens.  Farther  up  appeared  some  sloping  patches  of 
rice  and  maize,  or,  in  autumn,  of  Indian  corn,  glancing 
through  the  dark  mangoes  which  clothed  the  sides  of  the 
mountain.  These  in  some  places  were  mingled  with  the 
goolar,*  the  sitaphal,t  and  the  aroobadam;|  and  in  others 
with  the  larger  trees,  such   as  the  picturesque  tamarind,  the 

•   Wild  fig.  t  Custard  apple.  J  Almond  peach. 


252  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

sacred  peepul,  and  the  burr,  or  Indian  fig.  Amidst  this 
luxuriant  vegetation  the  stunted  neem-tree  occasionally  ap- 
peared, a  picture  of  deformity  and  decay;  seeming  to  point 
with  its  uncouth  branches  to  some  ravaged  field,  or  ruined 
hut,  where  the  destroyers  had  left  the  print  of  their  footsteps 
in  blood  and  ashes. 

Samarsi,  the  heir  of  this  wild  domain,  and  once  the  in- 
tended husband  of  Kishna,  was  one  of  those  romantic  cha- 
racters, in  whom  the  rudeness  of  the  feudal  age  is  so  tem- 
pered and  polished  by  a  spirit  of  fantastic  honor,  that  the 
reader  of  history,  confounding  unconsciously  the  genius  of 
the  period  with  that  of  the  individual,  is  apt  to  fancy  what  is 
called  the  era  of  chivalry — but  which  is  really  the  era  of 
barbarism — to  be  the  very  golden  age  of  lofty  sentiment  and 
generous  emprize — of  brave  men,  and  fair  women.  The 
restless  mind  of  Samarsi  was  by  no  means  bounded  by  the 
mountain  retreat  of  his  fathers.  He  had  visited  the  court  of 
his  prince ;  claimed  the  hospitality  of  the  most  powerful  chiefs 
throughout  the  plains  of  Hindostan ;  and  repaid  the  welcome 
which  all  were  eager  to  extend  to  the  noble  mountaineer, 
with  the  service  of  his  sword.  He  had  listened  in  his  wan- 
derings to  the  masters  of  the  lyre  till  he  himself  became  a 
poet ;  he  had  performed  a  pilgrimage  to  Gya,  the  Jerusalem 
of  the  Hindoos ;  and  roused  by  an  insult  to  his  honor  and 
faith,  had  smote  the  Islamite  with  his  sword  within  the  sacred 
gates.  Although  still  a  very  young  man,  his  fame  had  already 
gone  abroad  in  the  country.  When  the  deeds  of  Pirthi  Raj 
were  sung  by  the  bards,  the  name  of  Samarsi  was  mentioned 
at  least  as  that  of  an  imitator  of  the  Rajpoot  Rolando;  and 
while  the  damsels  of  the  princesses  of  Rajast'han  were 
wreathing  flowers  in  their  mistresses'  hair,  the  word  whispered 
in  their  ear  was  answered  by  a  sigh  as  soft  yet  as  ardent  as 
the  aroma  of  the  golden  chumpa. 

Samarsi  had  never  seen  his  once  intended  wife,  the  lovely 
Komari  of  Shapoora,  but  fame  had  done  ample  justice  to  her 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  253 

merits.     Her  image  was  early  enshrined  in  his  heart;  and  it 
grew  in  loveliness  with  the  growth  of  his  imagination,  like 
an  idol,  which  is  adorned  more  richly  every  day  according  to 
the  waxing  fortunes  of  the   worshiper.     What  his  feelings 
were  when  he  heard  of  the  rupture  of  the  negotiations — when 
he  learnt  that  Kishna  was  to  be  offered  up  a  victim  to  the 
Pokurna  chief— may  be  conceived.     Wounded  pride  added 
tenfold  bitterness  to  disappointed    love,   and  revenge    rose 
rankling  in  his  bosom  like  a  poisonous  weed  among  flowers. 
He  contracted  the  circle  of  his  wanderings,  and  confined  his 
visits  to  the  neighboring  chiefs,  heretofore  the  allies,  or  at 
least  the  neutral  spectators  of  his  father's  feuds.     He  accus- 
tomed the  immediate  followers  of  the  house  to  his  presence, 
mingling  freely  in  their  games,  and  exhibiting  in  the  various 
exercises,   such  as  riding  in  the  ring,  and  firing  with  the 
matchlock  at  a  mark,  a  degree  of  dexterity  which  appeared 
to  partake  almost  of  the   marvelous.     The    musters   of  the 
clan  became  speedily  so  frequent,  and   the  shout  of  mimic 
war  so  loud  on  the   heights  of  Amergurh,  that  the  raja's 
friends  warned  him  to  beware.    "  The  old  eagle  of  the  rock," 
said  they,  "is  pluming  his  feathers;"   and  the  hand  of  the 
Shapoora  prince  instinctively  grasped  the  scimitar  at  his  gir- 
dle at  the  ominous  intelligence. 

Kishna,  in  the  meantime,  although  she  felt  as  a  woman, 
exhibited  in  her  outward  manner  the  spirit  of  a  Rajpoot 
daughter.  It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  the  repu- 
tation acquired  by  Samarsi  could  have  failed  in  its  effect  on 
a  sensitive  heart  like  hers.  She  had  watched  the  progress  of 
her  future  husband — whom  she  had  never  yet  seen — with  an 
interest  increasing  every  day.  A  glow  of  loftier  pride,  at 
every  new  triumph,  illumined  her  beautiful  countenance;  a 
thrill  of  more  tumultuous  pleasure  ran  through  her  veins  at 
every  repetition  of  his  name  in  the  songs  in  which  the  soldier- 
bard  was  accustomed  to  extol  the  beauty  of  his  unseen  mis- 
tress above  that  of  the  fairest  among  the  princesses  of  Ra- 
22 


254  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

jast'han.  He  was  the  unceasing  theme  of  conversation 
among  the  damsels.  His  face — his  figure — his  gallant  bear- 
ing— his  noble  horsemanship — his  strength — his  feats  of  arms 
— all  were  detailed  with  unwearied  minuteness,  till  at  length 
the  image  of  the  young  hero  of  Amergurh  was  engraved  upon 
her  heart  as  indelibly  as  the  figures  seen  upon  the  walls  of 
the  marble  caves  of  Elephanta,  which  can  never  be  oblite- 
rated except  by  the  destruction  of  the  rock  itself.  Yet  when 
tidings  were  brought  to  her  of  the  change  in  her  father's 
intentions,  and  when  she  knew  that  that  beautiful  dream 
which  had  been  interwoven  so  closely  with  the  thread  of  her 
mortal  existence,  must  now  be  torn  away — no  word  of  com- 
plaint escaped  her  lips. 

It  is  true,  the  clear  and  sparkling  blood  was  seen  no  more 
through  the  light  transparent  olive  of  her  cheek;  the  circle  of 
musk  painted   upon  her  forehead,  looked,  in  that  region,  of 
the  paleness  of  death,  like   some   ominous  sign  more  fit  to 
awaken  fear  than   admiration ;    and   her   eyes,  when   their 
native  brilliancy  was  heightened  by  the  line  of  unjum  drawn 
upon  the  edges  of  the   lids,  exhibited   something   so  wildly 
beautiful  in  their  expression  that  her  very  maidens  paused  in 
the  middle  of  their  task  to  gaze  upon  her.     It  was  observed 
too,  that  when  she  walked,  the  sound  emitted  by  her  anklets  of 
golden  bells  betrayed  an  abruptness  and  agitation  which  might 
have  been  sought  in  vain  in  her  calm  and  lofty  deportment; 
and  her  damsels,  with  the  fine  instinct  of  penetration  peculiar 
to  their  sex,  in  spite  of  her  apparent  indifference,  broke  the 
silence  which  respect  for  their  lord  had  imposed,  and  mur- 
mured loudly  against  the  cruelty  of  his  decrees.     One  flush 
on  her  pale  cheek,  which,  passing  away,  left  the  cheek  still 
paler — one  wild   and   momentary  throb   of  her  bosom,  were 
the  only  tokens  by  which   the  heart  of  Kishna  answered  to 
the  name  of  power  they  pronounced;  but  with  a  slight  catch- 
ing of  the  breath  she  addressed  them  in  a  few  firm  but  gentle 
words. 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  255 

"Am  not  I  a  Rajpootni?"  she  said;  "  am  not  I  a  daughter 
of  the  princely  house  of  Shapoora?  Shall  Kishna  say  to  her 
father,  'My  lord,  why  dost  thou  this?'  We  are  set  apart  for 
sacrifice  from  our  birth.  When  our  eyes  first  open  upon  the 
light,  if  the  cunning- woman  say  not,  'Behold,  a  man-child 
is  born  to  thy  house!'  the  opiate  straight  is  mixed  in  the  bowl, 
and  the  first  food  we  receive  is  our  last.  That  I  have  lived 
so  many  years  I  owe  to  the  goodness  of  the  raja;  and  if  my 
death  were  required  this  moment  by  his  policy,  I  feel  that  I 
should  not  disgrace  by  a  single  shudder  the  blood  of  a  line 
of  kings."     It  was  of  death  Kishna  spoke,  not  of  marriage! 

The  vengeance  of  Amergurh  at  length  broke  like  a  thunder- 
storm  upon  the  Shapoora  plains.  A  fortress,  one  of  the  few 
defences  of  the  raja's  territory  on  the  mountain  borders,  was 
carried  by  assault,  and  the  garrison  put  to  the  sword ;  the 
neighboring  villages  were  plundered,  and  their  inhabitants 
scattered  upon  the  plains,  with  the  exception  of  the  wealth- 
ier few,  who  were  carried  off  to  partake  of  the  hospitali- 
ties of  the  mountain  chief,  till  their  friends  could  collect  a 
fitting  ransom  ;  fires  blazed  and  swords  flashed  in  every  di- 
rection ;  and  although  the  assailants  wTere  but  a  handful  com- 
pared with  the  host  of  defenders,  so  quick  were  their  motions, 
so  sure  their  information,  and  so  deadly  the  meditated  blow 
where  it  fell,  that  the  whole  feudal  power  of  Shapoora  seemed 
unable  to  arrest  the  progress  of  him  who  had  been  deridingly 
termed  "the  old  robber  of  the  rock."  It  was  then  the  war- 
like education  of  Samarsi  was  duly  appreciated.  Nothing 
had  escaped  his  keen  eye  in  the  policy  of  the  Indian  states, 
whether  Hindoo  or  Mohammedan;  no  improvement  in  mili- 
tary tactics,  no  invention  in  arms  and  accoutrements  was  un- 
familiar to  him;  and  when  the  raja's  followers  had  formed 
their  .simple  lines  for  the  reception  of  enemies  as  rude  and 
simple  as  themselves,  they  saw  to  their  dismay  the  advance 
of  a  power,  still  more  formidable  than  that  of  the  Mussulman 
conqueror. 


256  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

Over  the  whole  struggle,  however,  fierce  and  bloody  though 
it  was,  there  was  thrown  a  relieving  air  of  chivalrous  gal- 
lantry, not  uncommon  in  the  wars  of  the  Rajpoots.  This  was 
a  feud  of  love  more  than  of  hate ;  and  the  rudest  soldier  in 
Samarsi's  ranks  knew  how  to  distinguish  between  the  cause 
of  the  Komari  and  that  of  her  father.  Kishna  and  Samarsi, 
in  fact,  had  long  been  twin  names  in  the  imagination.  The 
romance  had  already  commenced ;  the  line  of  its  story  had 
been  carried  on  through  a  succession  of  years;  and  now  this 
striking  incident — involving,  perhaps,  the  catastrophe — be- 
came the  subject  of  deep  and  concentrated  interest. 

When  intelligence  of  this  sudden  awaking  of  the  slumber- 
ing feud  reached  the  raja,  he  was  enjoying,  with  his  family, 
the  pleasures  of  a  country  residence,  near  the  borders  of  his 
territory.  He  contented  himself,  at  first,  with  ordering  a 
detachment  of  his  troops  against  the  "old  robber;"  but 
alarmed  at  length  at  the  repeated  disasters  which  befel  the 
Shapoora  arms,  he  resolved  to  take  the  field  in  person.  De- 
termining, however,  that  the  hopes  of  Samarsi,  both  in  love 
and  war,  should  be  overthrown  in  one  day,  he  dispatched 
messengers  to  his  intended  son-in-law,  the  Pokurna  chief, 
requiring  him  to  repair  with  his  whole  chivalry  to  the  fortress 
of  Chulwa,  for  the  purpose  of  escorting  his  bride  to  Shapoora, 
where  the  nuptials  were  to  be  immediately  celebrated.  For 
the  farther  security  of  the  fair  traveler,  as  well  as  to  swell 
the  pomp  of  the  procession,  he  also  issued  orders  to  his 
own  adherents,  with  the  exception  of  the  body  employed 
in  keeping  Samarsi  in  check,  to  muster  at  Chulwa;  and  hav- 
ing arranged,  by  the  aid  of  constant  couriers,  the  prepara- 
tions at  Shapoora,  the  raja  at  length  fixed  a  day  on  which  the 
important  rites  were  to  be  performed,  with  a  magnificence 
hitherto  unknown,  except  in  the  marriages  of  kings. 

All  wTas  bustle  at  Chulwa.  No  sooner  did  the  sun  rise  on 
the  hills,  than  the  sound  of  the  nakarra,*  reverberating  like 

*    Great  kettle  drum. 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  257 

distant  thunder,  gave  notice  of  the  approach  of  successive 
bodies  of  guests  or  troops,  speeding  to  the  centre  of  attrac- 
tion from  all  points  of  the  compass.  As  they  came  nearer, 
the  crimson  banner  of  Shapoora,  floating  over  many  of  the 
bands,  distinguished  the  liege-men  of  the  raja ;  while  others 
bore  conspicuously  the  galla'nt  ensigns  of  the  house  of  Po- 
kurna.  Not  a  few,  too,  of  the  neighboring  chiefs  appeared 
winding  down  the  hill  sides,  at  the  head  of  their  followers ; 
and  here  and  there  a  solitary  cavalier,  armed  at  all  points, 
was  seen  galloping  across  the  plain.  This  brilliant  picture 
was  filled  up  by  innumerable  figures  of  brahmins,  astrologers, 
mendicants,  dancing-women,  and  the  whole  host  of  super- 
numeraries who  crowd  with  equal  eagerness  to  a  wedding 
and  a  sati.  As  the  various  groups  approached  the  gates  of 
the  fortress,  the  forms  of  reception,  modified  by  their  different 
ranks,  gave  a  new  animation  to  the  scene.  The  hill-war- 
riors  striding  over  the  marble  courts,  their  armor  rattling  as 
they  walked,  were  seen  to  throw  .glances  around,  half  of 
admiration,  half  of  affected  contempt.  Gallant  and  grave, 
the  older  chiefs  paced  steadily  along,  measuring  with  a  sol- 
dier's eye  the  almost  perfect  appointments  of  the  place ;  while 
the  younger,  as  the  lattices  of  this  temporary  palace  of  beauty 
caught  their  wandering  glances,  might  have  been  observed 
to  throw  back  their  heads  with  soldier-like  dignity,  or  ring 
their  Boondi  matchlocks  on  the  marble  pavement  with  an  air 
ofcelegant  negligence.  Haughtily  waved  the  peacock's  fea- 
ther on  many  a  dinted  helmet,  as  the  array  seemed  to  be 
gradually  swallowed  up  by  the  magnificent  portals;  and  loud 
and  long  at  intervals  rose  the  peal  of  the  warlike  sankh,  and 
the  thunder  of  the  hoarse  nakarra. 

The  reception  of  the  guests  was  such  as  befitted  the  luxu- 
rious hospitality  of  the  raja.  Seated  under  painted  and  gilded 
ceilings  supported  by  serpentine  pillars,  which  were  reflected 
in  walls  forming  a  single  mass  of  mirrors,  the  chiefs  drank  at 
their  pleasure,  from  golden  vessels,  the  flower  of  the  Mawa 

■2-y 


25S  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

tree,  the  infusion  of  the  poppy,  or  the  thousand  arracks,  or 
distilled  waters,  which  lull  the  soul  of  the  Hindoo  into  forget- 
fulness  of  its  cares.  Some  repaired  in  detached  groups  to 
colonnaded  refectories  placed  on  the  water's  edge ;  others 
refreshed  themselves  in  marble  baths;  and  others,  wandering 
into  the  orange  and  lemon  groves  which  intervened  between 
the  buildings,  lay  down  beneath  the  spreading  tamarind,  or 
ever-green  kheenee  to  sleep  off  their  noon-day  opiate. 

The  denizens  of  the  rawula,  in  the  mean  time,  were  not 
exempted  from  the  agitation  of  the  time.  Kisbna's  damsels, 
delighted  with  any  incident  which  relieved  the  usual  mono- 
tony of  their  lives,  leaped  backwards  and  forwards  like  young 
antelopes,  seeking  and  conveying  intelligence  of  every  new 
arrival.  Sometimes  they  would  peep  through  the  lattices  to 
obtain  a  distant  view  of  the  throng,  and  sometimes,  ascending 
to  the  top  of  the  building  which  contained  their  apartments, 
look  stealthily  over  the  battlements.  Their  young  mistress, 
herself,  appeared  to  be  affected  by  the  general  commotion. 
She  started  at  every  blast  of  the  sankh,  as  it  smote  upon  her 
ear,  and  watched  with  an  unquiet  air  the  echoes  of  the 
nakarra,  as  they  thundered  through  the  courts  of  the  palace- 
fort,  and  died  among  the  distant  hills.  Even  the  soft  voice 
of  the  shehna,*  as  in  the  evening  it  floated  from  the  lofty  ter- 
races, in  many  a  sweet,  wild  tuppa  of  her  country,  was  in- 
effectual in  soothing  the  agitation  of  her  mind ;  and  when 
the  night  set  in,  and  the  warder's  tourraye,f  rising  with  its 
intense  and  magnificent  swell  from  some  lonely  turret,  had 
received  the  answer  it  challenged,  her  heart  seemed  to  die 
within  her  as  the  deep  hem!  hem!  proclaimed  "all's  well!" 

Then,  encircling  with  her  arm  the  waist  of  her  foster-sister, 
who  was  the  favorite  maiden,  she  wandered  to  a  distant 
apartment,  and  throwing  open  the  lattice,  stooped  to  inhale 
the  scent  of  the  thousand  lotus  flowers  which  gemmed  the 

*  Hautboy.  |  Trumpet. 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  259 

bosom  of  the  lake  below.  At  the  instant  a  passing  bird  of 
prey  dropped  the  quarry  he  held  in  his  beak,  into  the  water. 
The  foster-sister  shrieked  at  the  fatal  omen — but  her  shriek 
was  silenced  by  the  voice  of  a  shial,*  which  rose  in  a  wild 
howl  of  lamentation  from  the  neighboring  forest;  and  the 
maiden,  shocked  at  the  double  signal  of  despair,  which  no 
Rajpoot  nor  Rajpootni  could  witness  without  horror,  hid  her 
pale  face  in  her  mistress's  bosom. 

"A  tale — a  tale!"  cried  Kishna,  with  a  sudden  effort,  "a 
tale  of  the  days  of  other  years !  But  let  it  be  as  wild,  my 
Punna,  as  the  cry  of  the  shial  sounding  at  night,  and  as  sad 
as — as — "  and  she  pressed  her  hand  convulsively  to  her 
breast,  and  leaning  her  fair  brow  on  her  confidant's  shoulder, 
gave  way,  for  the  first  time,  to  a  burst  of  tears.  They  sank 
down  upon  the  carpet  together ;  and  in  obedience  to  her  mis- 
tress's commands,  Punna  examined  the  stores  of  her  memory, 
to  bring  forth  some  of  those  pleasing,  but  melancholy  tales, 
which  had  so  often  beguiled  the  wearisome  hours  of  the 
rawula.  The  hue  of  night,  however,  was  spread  even  over 
her  mind,  and  her  gloomy  thoughts  could  find  only  images  of 
gloom.  In  vain  she  endeavored  to  transport  her  imagination 
to  the  days  of  Pirthi-Raj,  and  to  steep  her  soul  in  the  recol- 
lected melodies  of  the  minstrel  Chund. 

"Happy  days!"  she  exclaimed,  "when  the  high-born 
damsel,  sitting  on  her  cushioned  throne,  in  the  midst  of  her 
assembled  suitors,  threw  the  Bur-malaf  to  the  lover  of  her 
heart.  No  father's  stern  decree — no  policy  of  state — forbade 
the  tying  of  the  garments  when  souls  were  already  united; 
love,  love  alone,  was  the  lord  of  the  period,  and  woman's 
will  his  only  minister  on  earth!"  At  this  moment  another 
blast  of  the  tourraye  swept  with  a  wailing  sound  through  the 
air,  and  dying  away  among  the  distant  hills,  left  behind  a 
silence  so  awful,  that  Punna  trembled  at  her  own  breathing. 

*  Jackal.  f  Garland  of  marriage. 


260  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

At  the  whispered  command  of  her  mistress  she  spoke  again  ; 
but  forgetting  her  theme,  it  was  of  fear,  and  foreboding,  and 
destiny,  and  despair,  that  was  formed  the  burden  of  her  tale. 
She  told  of  that  unhappy  Rana  who  fell,  with  his  eleven 
sons,  amidst  the  ruins  of  Cheetore — and  of  the  spectre-ge- 
nius, who,  advancing  between  the  granite  columns,  stood  by 
his  sleepless  bed  by  the  dim  light  of  the  cheragh,*  and  ex- 
claimed Myn  bhooka  ho!  "I  am  hungry  still!" — and  of  the 
fair  Pudmani,  who,  with  the  queens  and  princesses,  and  ladies 
of  Cheetore,  walked  in  magnificent  procession  to  the  subter- 
ranean palace,  when  all  hope  of  defending  the  city  was 
abandoned — where  they  were  so  securely  built  up  from  Tar- 
tar lust,  that  no  particle  of  smoke  escaped  to  tell  the  fearful 
story  of  their  doom!  Insensible  of  the  lapse  of  time,  Kishna 
and  her  damsel  continued  to  feed  their  gloomy  fancies  with 
such  stories,  till  the  faint  light  of  their  lamp  was  lost  in  the 
beams  of  the  dawn,  and  a  thousand  living  sounds  in  the 
fortress  proclaimed  that  preparations  were  already  making 
for  the  journey  to  the  raja's  capital — that  the  day  was  indeed 
arrived,  when  the  Komari  of  Shapoora  was  to  bid  a  last 
adieu  to  those  long-cherished  hopes  which  even  now  only 
flitted  around  her  heart  like  the  shahaba  of  Hindoo  super- 
stition— the  spectre-lights  of  the  grave. 

Soon  all  was  in  motion  in  the  fortress  of  Chulwa,  and  the 
scene  presented  in  the  spacious  courts  was  in  the  highest 
degree  imposing.  Masses  of  moving  figures  were  observed, 
some  already  forming  in  the  order  of  the  march,  and  others 
still  immersed  in  all  the  hurry  of  preparation.  Here  a 
Sanyasi,  with  his  orange-colored  unga,  or  tunic,  flowing 
loosely  round  his  limbs,  and  his  turban  of  the  same  hue, 
ornamented  with  a  necklace  of  the  lotus  kernel,  might  be 
seen  wandering  through  the  crowd,  counting  his  beads,  and 
repeating  the  name  of  his  favorite  deity  aloud,  in  apparent 


Lamp. 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  261 

abstraction  from  all  worldly  concerns ;  there  a  young  chief, 
adjusting  hurriedly  the  heron  plume,  or  peacock's  feather  in 
his  helmet,  as  he  turned  a  stealthy  look  towards  the  distant 
lattices  of  the  rawula;  beside  him,  two  rival  bards,  disputing 
on  some  point  of  distant  genealogy;  and  here  and  there, 
walking  with  unsteady  pace,  and  staring  vacantly  around,  a 
figure,  whose  hollow  eyes,  and  uncared-for  apparel,  pro- 
claimed that  he  had  already,  even  at  that  early  hour,  been 
indulging  in  the  darling  opiate.  Turbans  of  all  hues  and 
forms  might  be  seen  floating  through  the  area,  some  deco- 
rated with  feathers,  and  some  with  branches  of  different 
shrubs  sacred  to  the  God  of  war ;  while  the  clusters  of  arms 
scattered  everywhere  around,  lances,  matchlocks  and  buc- 
klers,— steeds  snorting  and  pawing  the  ground,  as  if  proud  of 
their  scarlet  trimmings, — and  pennons  fluttering  gayly  over 
head, — conferred  a  character  of  animation  upon  the  half- 
warlike  pageant,  which  could  scarcely  be  equaled  in  any 
other  than  a  Rajpoot  festival.  The  very  elephants  sympa- 
thized on  the  joyous  occasion,  signifying  their  delight  in  that 
shrill  and  indescribable  cry  which  is  peculiar  to  them  ;  and 
the  yells  of  the  camels,  in  spite  of  their  monstrous  defiance 
of  all  musical  proportion,  spoke  a  language  by  no  means 
untranslatable  by  the  human  heart. 

Kishna  and  the  whole  train  of  the  rawula  were  at  length 
mounted  in  their  litters,  and  all  things  were  ready.  The 
fortunate  hour  agreed  upon  by  the  astrologers  arrived,  and 
the  sankh  was  thrice  sounded,  and  three  rounds  of  thunder 
elicited  from  the  nakarras.  The  Pokurna  chief,  a  plain, 
middle-aged,  soldier-like  man,  approached  the  covered  vehi- 
cle which  contained  his  bride,  and  having  ordered  around  it 
an  escort,  the  noblest  of  his  retinue,  the  raja  passed  the  orders 
to  march. 

At  this  moment,  a  single  horseman,  who  a  few  minutes 
before  had  been  spurring  with  frantic  speed  down  the  neigh- 
boring hills,  plunged,  in  spite  of  the  shouts  and  menaces  ot 


262  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

the  guards,  into  the  midst  of  the  group  of  chiefs,  and  threw 
himself  at  the  raja's  feet,  while  his  horse  reeled,  fell,  and 
expired  at  the  same  instant.  The  intruder  was  a  young  man 
whose  dress  and  color  denoted  him  to  be  an  Abyssinian  slave ; 
and  he  held  in  his  hand  the  fragments  of  a  silver  ring,  such 
as  is  worn  round  the  left  ankle  by  the  golas,  or  military  slaves 
of  the  Hindoo  chiefs.  What  his  natural  appearance  and 
physiognomy  might  be,  it  was  impossible  to  determine ;  for 
his  face  was  so  begrimed  with  blood  and  the  marks  of  travel, 
and  his  scarf  so  torn,  and  twisted  round  his  body,  that  little 
else  could  be  gathered  from  this  sudden  apparition  than  that 
it  bore  the  figure  and  aspect  of  a  man. 

Being  ordered  to  speak,  the  young  man  rose  up,  and  cover- 
ing his  face,  related  in  a  broken  voice  a  story  of  outrage  and 
dishonor.  His  wife  had  been  torn  from  his  arms  by  the  very 
master  who  was  bound  to  protect  him — and  whom  he  had 

often  protected  at  the  hazard  of  his  life.     She  had  been 

(the  lips  of  the  slave  refused  to  utter  the  word) — and  the 
complaints  wrung  from  his  burning  heart  by  fury  and  de- 
spair, had  been  answered  by  public  stripes! 

An  exclamation  of  horror  ran  through  the  listeners  at  the 
tale,  without  the  exception  even  of  the  libertine  raja  himself. 

"Dust  on  his  head!"  cried  they  with  one  voice — "  may  he 
die  childless,  and  his  name  die  with  him!" 

"By  my  sword  and  shield!"  exclaimed  the  Pokurna  chief, 
striking  furiously  the  two  weapons  together,  "if  the  dastard 
be  but  within  reach,  it  were  a  fortunate  deed  to  wipe  out  this 
stain  upon  the  Rajpoot  race,  on  our  way  to  Shapoora!"  A 
cry  of  savage  joy  escaped  from  the  white  lips  of  the  Abys- 
sinian at  the  words;  and  prostrating  himself  again  upon  the 
earth,  he  besought  the  chiefs  to  aid  him  in  his  revenge. 

"Name  him!"  said  they. 

"Samarsi  of  Amergurh!" 

It  may  be  imagined  that  the  virtuous  wrath  of  the  raja 
was  no  whit  appeased  by  this  identification  of  the  perpetrator 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  263 

of  the  outrage  with  his  personal  foe;  and  few  doubted  his 
word  when  he  swore  solemnly  by  his  favorite  sword,  kneel- 
ing before  it  on  the  earth,  that  he  took  the  feud  of  the  Abys- 
sinian upon  himself. 

"Be  it  mine,  then,"  said  the  latter,  "to  point  your  way 
to  a  double  conquest — a  triumph  at  once  over  your  enemy 
and  mine.  In  the  pass  of  Alhiran,  Samarsi,  like  a  couched 
tiger,  waits  your  coming.  Let  the  main  body  of  your  troops 
march  boldly  but  warily  through  the  pass,  while  a  chosen 
band  makes  a  circuit  by  the  plain-ward  side.  At  the  signal 
of  attack,  which  will  be  given  by  a  shower  of  rocks  descend- 
ing from  the  brow  of  the  cliff,  let  the  main  body  push  gal- 
lantly up  the  steep,  while  their  comrades  on  the  other  side, 
warned  by  the  shout  of  war,  scale  the  ridge  to  their  assist- 
ance. Thus  between  two  fires  will  Samarsi  perish,  without 
possibility  of  escape;  for  his  force,  you  must  be  aware,  even 
including  his  Bhil  allies,  is  not  a  tenth  part  of  yours.  As  for 
the  bride,"  continued  the  Abyssinian,  in  an  altered  voice, 
while  his  frame  trembled  with  half-suppressed  emotion, 
caused  no  doubt  by  the  remembrance  of  his  wrongs,  "  let 
the  princess,  protected  by  a  suitable  escort,  take  the  nearer 
and  narrower  pass  of  Aravulli,  and — " 

"Ha!"  interrupted  the  Pokurna  chief,  "by the  steel,  here 
is  a  goodly  adviser!  Why,  slave,  would  you  separate  the 
princess  from  the  strength  of  her  friends?"  and  he  bent  upon 
the  Abyssinian  a  searching  and  suspicious  gaze.  The  gola 
stood  collected  under  the  scrutiny  for  some  moments,  and 
then  modestly  withdrawing  his  eyes,  answered  in  a  submissive 

tone. 

"My  lord  is  the  director  of  the  will  of  mankind!  I  but 
hinted  at  a  separate  route  for  the  females,  lest  the  eagerness 
of  your  troops,  when  attacked  by  the  enemy,  might  leave 
them  unprotected  in  the  gorge  of  the  mountains ;  and  be- 
cause in  the  pass  I  have  named,  too  narrow  for  more  than 
three  men  to  walk  abreast,  and  too  wild  and  rugged  for  the 


264  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

purposes  of  pleasure,  no  human  being  would  think  of  looking 
for  the  marriage  cavalcade  of  a  daughter  of  the  house  of 
Shapoora.  The  ridge  of  mountain,  besides,  which  separates 
the  two  passes,  is  not  high  enough  to  prevent  a  halloo,  not  to 
talk  of  the  report  of  a  matchlock,  from  being  heard  from 
one  to  another.  Howbeit,  if  it  is  the  will  of  my  lord  that  the 
bride  be  carried  through  fire  and  smoke  to  her  wedding — " 

''Silence,  slave!"  interrupted  the  raja,  "it  may  be — if 
one  may  reason  from  that  daring  tongue  and  insolent  eye — 
that  the  heir  of  Amergurh  had  better  excuse  for  his  conduct 
than  the  beauty  of  a  gola's  wife — he  is  my  enemy,  however, 
and  you  are  the  tool  which  I  shall  use  to  crush  him."  Then 
turning  to  the  other  chiefs,  he  proposed  apart  to  them  a  plan 
of  operations,  which  it  was  hoped  would  deliver  Samarsi  and 
his  whole  force  into  their  hands.  It  was  determined  that  the 
Abyssinian's  advice  should  be  taken ;  that  the  litters  of  the 
females,  strongly  escorted,  should  proceed  by  the  pass  of 
Aravulli,  and  that  he  himself,  at  once  their  guide  and  pri- 
soner, should  head  the  procession,  between  two  soldiers  with 
lighted  matches. 

Having  arranged  also  the  order  of  the  main  body,  the 
march  was  again  about  to  be  commenced,  when  the  astrolo- 
gers, uttering  a  cry  of  warning,  reminded  the  chiefs  that  the 
fortunate  hour  was  passed  by. 

"Behold,"  said  they,  "our witness!"  as  they  pointed  with 
meaning  finger  to  the  heavens — and  many  a  bold  heart 
quailed  with  fear  at  the  sight  of  some  spots  on  the  broad  disk 
of  the  sun.  To  propitiate  the  powers  which  watch  over  the 
fate  of  armies,  a  buffalo  was  sacrificed  with  great  pomp  in 
front  of  the  lines ;  and  this  ceremony  over,  which  is  seldom 
omitted  by  the  Rajpoot  warrior,  when  any  considerable  inter- 
val elapses  between  the  sounding  of  the  instrument  and  the 
march  of  the  troops,  three  blasts  on  the  sankh  were  again 
blown,  and  the  nakarra  thrice  struck,  and  the  huge  proces- 
sion was  at  length  in  motion. 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  265 

The  Abyssinian  slave,  apparently  unmoved  by  fear  or  any 
other  ordinary  feeling  of  human  nature,  had  remained  during 
the  whole  time  seated  on  the  ground,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  crossed  on  the  top  of  his  shield,  which  rested  perpen- 
dicularly on  his  knees.  When  summoned  to  his  place  in  the 
ranks,  he  slung  his  matchlock  on  his  back,  crossed  his  arms 
in  his  ample  scarf,  and  strode  forward  between  his  two 
guards,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  ground. 

In  due  time  the  little  army  divided,  the  main  body  taking 
the  pass  of  Alhiran,  while  the  litters  of  the  females,  escorted 
by  a  considerable  number  of  troops,  and  followed  by  the  un- 
armed supernumeraries  of  the  procession,  plunged  into  the 
deep  gorge  of  Aravulli.  This,  Kishna  thought,  was  the  least 
unpleasant  part  of  the  journey;  and  in  contemplating  a  scene 
so  new  and  striking  to  her  imagination,  she  almost  forgot  the 
load  of  griefs  which  had  pressed  upon  her  heart  like  a  tomb- 
stone. 

Their  route  was  along  the  bed  of  a  torrent,  which  cooled 
the  air  by  its  perpetual  spray  ;  and  through  the  branches  of 
the  tamarind  and  burr,  which  canopied  the  path,  they  could 
see  at  intervals  the  bare  and  fantastic  projections  of  the  rocks, 
basking  in  the  sun,  several  hundred  feet  above  their  heads. 
The  sounds  with  which  this  natural  solitude  was  filled,  were 
the  more  striking,  from  their  very  incongruity.  Mingling 
with  the  roar  of  the  mountain-river,  modified  every  moment 
by  the  varying  volume  of  the  water,  and  the  height  of  suc- 
cessive falls,  came  the  clattering  of  arms,  the  hoarse  shouts 
of  men,  and  the  yells  of  camels ;  while  the  cry  of  a  thousand 
wild-birds,  startled  from  their  ancient  domain  by  so  unusual 
a  phenomenon,  was  emulated  by  the  shrieks  of  women, 
stumbling  among  the  fragments  of  rocks,  and  the  shrill 
laughter  of  children  chasing  one  another  up  the  sides  of 
the  steep. 

The  van  of  the  procession  had  reached  the  loftiest  part  of 
the  path,  where  the  road  was  seen  to  divide  into  two  branches; 
23 


266  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

and  the  Abyssinian  and  his  guards  halted  for  a  few  moments, 
as  if  to  choose  between  them.  A  simultaneous  pause  took 
place  in  the  whole  body,  and  all  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
conductors.  Among  these  at  length,  a  stir  was  observed — 
hardly  comprehended  at  first  by  the  nearest ;  but  one  of  the 
guards  was  seen  to  fall  suddenly  over  the  rocks  into  the  tor- 
rent, while  the  other  sunk  lifeless  at  the  foot  of  the  steep. 
The  Abyssinian,  clashing  together  two  daggers,  which  had 
just  drank  the  blood  of  both  their  bosoms — held  them  up  to- 
wards the  mountain ;  the  signal  was  answered  by  a  single  shot 
which  rung  across  the  pass,  and  was  followed  almost  instanta- 
neously by  the  descent  of  an  enormous  rock,  into  the  midst 
of  the  troops  which  guarded  the  litter  of  the  princess.  The 
startled  soldiers  fired  their  matchlocks  at  random  among  the 
trees;  and  as  if  conjured  by  the  sound,  every  branch  gave 
forth  its  sprite  in  the  shape  of  a  foe.  These  were  seen  to  a 
man  arrayed  in  the  saffron  robes,  which  indicate  that  the 
wearers  will  neither  give  nor  receive  quarter,  but  must  either 
conquer  or  die ;  and,  with  the  wild  hurt  hurl  the  battle-shout 
of  the  Rajpoot  warrior,  they  rushed  down  the  steep  upon  their 
prey. 

The  guard  in  advance  was  cut  to  pieces,  as  if  by  one  blow ; 
and  as  the  assailants  swept  on  to  the  attack  of  the  main  body 
of  the  detachment,  which  surrounded  and  followed  the  litters, 
and  was  commanded  by  the  Pokurna  chief  in  person,  Kishna, 
moved  by  an  uncontrollable  impulse,  drew  aside  the  curtains, 
and  gazed  with  fearful  curiosity  upon  the  boiling  tide  of  bat- 
tle. In  a  moment  her  eyes  were  riveted,  as  if  by  some  ma- 
gical charm,  upon  the  figure  of  the  Abyssinian  slave,  who 
seemed  to  be  the  evil  genius  of  the  slaughter.  He  had  torn 
the  dark  scarf  from  his  breast,  which  now  exhibited  the 
saffron  ensign,  at  once  of  indomitable  courage  and  reckless 
despair.  He  was  the  star  of  the  battle,  to  whom  all  hearts 
were  turned,  either  in  love  or  deprecation.  His  steps  were 
on  the  dead  and  dying;  wherever  he  trod,  blood  bubbled 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  267 

up  beneath  his  feet ;  his  course  through  the  fight  was  as  that 
of  a  reaper  on  a  harvest  field.  In  a  few  moments  he  had  cut 
his  way  towards  the  litter  of  the  princess,  and  the  bridegroom 
sprung  to  meet  him.  Terrible  was  the  clash  of  the  warriors 
when  they  met;  but  at  the  instant,  one  of  the  assailing  party, 
who  lay  mortally  wounded  below,  seized  on  the  foot  of  the 
Pokurna  chief,  and  in  the  strong  agonies  of  death  dragged 
him  to  the  earth.  The  Abyssinian's  sword  circled  round  his 
head,  like  a  bird  of  prey,  about  to  stoop  upon  his  quarry; 
but  in  descending,  its  swoop  was  arrested  by  a  shriek  from 
Kishna,  and,  raising  the  dripping  blade  to  his  lips,  the  gola 
bowed  himself  to  the  earth  and  turned  away.  The  cry  of 
hurt  hurl  arose  with  renewed  ardor  at  the  fall  of  the  Po- 
kurna chief,  and  wras  answered  with  a  yell,  at  once  of  fear 
and  fury,  by  his  adherents,  "For  the  bride  of  Shapoora!" 
shouted  the  terrible  Abyssinian,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  as  he 
passed  the  litter.  "Amergurh!  Amergurh!"  answered  his 
followers,  and  the  tide  of  battle  rolled  past. 

Stupefied  by  the  crowd  of  contending  emotions,  stirred  up 
in  her  mind  by  the  last  battle-cry,  which  informed  her  that 
Samarsi's  friends  were  warring  desperately  and  unequally 
for  the  possession  of  her  hand,  Kishna  hardly  saw  which  way 
the  fortune  of  the  battle  went.  She  felt  the  curtains  of  her 
litter  drawn  closely  round,  and  perceived  by  the  motion  that 
she  was  again  on  her  journey,  over  ground  still  more  rugged 
than  before.  The  voices  of  war  by  degrees  died  away  be- 
hind her,  and  the  panting  of  the  men  by  whom  she  was  borne, 
was  at  length  the  only  sound  which  met  her  ear.  After  tra- 
veling in  this  manner  for  a  considerable  time,  the  litter  was 
set  down,  and  the  fair  prisoner  perceiving  that  the  fastenings 
were  withdrawn,  threw  open  her  curtains  and  looked  round. 

Some  wild-looking  men,  panting  and  gasping  with  fatigue, 
were  hanging  eagerly  over  a  rivulet,  which  trickled  from  a 
rock;  and  further  on  a  single  soldier,  armed  and  equipped 
at  all  points,  appeared  to  be  acting  as  a  sentry.     No  stir  nor 


268  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

confusion  was  anywhere  visible;  the  late  battle  seemed  to 
be  but  a  dream,  and  everything  in  the  secluded  valley  in 
which  she  found  herself,  shaded  by  some  mountain  trees,  and 
defended  by  a  circle  of  singularly  shaped  rocks,  appeared  so 
calm  and  pleasant,  that  she  might  have  fancied  herself  some 
heroine  of  a  tale,  journeying  alone  on  a  mission  of  adventure 
and  love.  When  the  sense  of  novelty,  however,  was  past, 
more  disagreeable  ideas  occurred  to  the  mind  of  the  Rajpoot 
maiden.  The  very  stillness  and  method  of  the  arrangements 
at  length  disgusted  and  irritated  her. 

"Insolent!"  she  exclaimed,  after  pondering  for  some  time, 
Avith  a  gradually  heightening  color,  on  the  affairs  of  the  morn- 
ing; "not  satisfied  with  humbling  the  pride  of  my  father,  his 
paltry  vengeance  must  alight  upon  me!  He  sends  by  a  vile 
slave  for  the  daughter  of  Shapoora — succeeds  in  his  mission 
by  means  of  a  lying  tale  and  a  cowardly  artifice — and  now, 
oh  Mata!  without  being  vouchsafed  a  view  even  of  my  mas- 
ter's face,  far  less  being  treated  to  the  usual  jargon  which  on 
such  occasions  disguises  fraud  and  sweetens  force,  I  am  to 
be  carried  to  his  abode  like  a  piece  of  merchandize, — even  I, 
Kishna  Komari! — and  presented  a  passive  slave,  at  the  feet 
of  the  lordly  heir  of  Amergurh!"  With  flushing  cheek  and 
Hashing  eyes,  Kishna  concluded  her  soliloquy;  but  the  next 
moment  no  bystander  could  have  perceived  the  traces  of 
emotion  in  her  calm  face.  Her  hand  grasped  the  hilt  of  a 
dagger  in  her  girdle,  and  in  her  heart  she  vowed  that  she 
never,  while  living,  should  enter  by  human  force  the  doorg  of 
Amergurh. 

In  a  short  time  a  change  of  bearers  was  effected,  and  the  lit- 
ter again  in  motion.  Anxiously  did  the  eyes  of  the  Rajpootni 
wander  over  the  wilderness  of  rocks  in  which  she  journeyed; 
and  more  fell  grew  her  purpose  as  the  opening  shades  of 
distance  began  to  reveal,  in  the  form  of  a  fortress,  an  object 
which  she  had  hitherto  taken  for  the  fantastic  ridge  of  one  of 
the  cliffs  which  were  faintly  sketched  upon  the  northern  sky. 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  269 

At  this  moment  a  party  of  horsemen  appeared  in  the  distance, 
threading  the  mazes  of  the  rocks,  and  the  possibility  of  escape 
for  the  first  time  suggested  itself  to  her  mind.  The  strangers, 
however,  might  be  friends  as  well  as  enemies;  their  number 
might  even  contain  Samarsi  himself;  and  a  soft  glow  rose 
into  Kishna's  cheeks  at  the  thought.  Who  knows  whether 
she  most  dreaded  or  desired  the  tardy  interview  ?  But  the 
horsemen  turned  away  in  another  direction,  and  the  maiden's 
cheek  grew  paler  than  before.  "  They  are  neither  the  friends 
nor  the  party  of  my  ravisher,"  she  exclaimed;  "at  all  events 
they  are  Rajpoots,  and  for  the  rana's,  if  not  for  honor's  sake, 
they  will  protect  a  kinswoman  of  their  prince's  house."  So 
saying  she  threw  up  a  thin  handkerchief  into  the  air,  and  had 
the  satisfaction  of  finding  that  the  signal  was  immediately 
observed. 

The  horsemen,  scattering  in  all  directions,  forsook  the 
regular  route,  and  pursued  the  paths  over  the  rocks  wThich 
seemed  best  to  each ;  and  as  their  graceful  figures  at  times 
rose  above  the  horizon,  and  were  painted  upon  the  silver  sky 
behind,  Kishna's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  golden  age  of  Hin- 
doo chivalry,  when  beauty  was  the  only  star  which  ruled  the 
tides  of  man's  bosom.  This  lightning  of  her  mind,  however, 
illumined  but  for  an  instant  the  glorious  picture,  and  then 
fading  as  suddenly  left  all  dark  as  before.  The  next  moment 
the  leader  of  the  party,  dashing  down  a  precipitous  steep, 
reined  up  his  horse  within  a  few  paces  of  the  litter,  with  a 
force  which  threw  the  animal  back  on  his  haunches;  and 
then  leaping  lightly  off,  inquired,  with  a  profound  obeisance, 
what  were  her  commands.  Kishna  gazed  for  a  moment  on  the 
stranger,  who  was  a  young  man  of  a  noble  and  lofty  bearing, 
armed  at  all  points  as  became  an  accomplished  cavalier,  and 
bearing  in  his  helmet  a  heron's  plume,  the  sign  of  nobility; 
but  recollecting  herself  with  ablush,  she  speedily  drew  down 
her  veil  in  token  of  respect,  and  stepped  from  the  litter. 

"I  do  not  inquire,"  said  she,  "to  what  house  you  belong; 

23* 


270  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

it  is  sufficient  that  your  air  and  dress,  your  retinue  and  ban- 
ner, inform  me  you  are  noble.  I  call  upon  you  as  a  man 
to  protect  the  oppressed,  and  as  a  Rajpoot  to  save  the  blood 
of  your  rana  from  dishonor!"  The  blood  of  the  stranger 
mounted  into  his  face  at  this  address,  and  he  looked  fiercely 
round  as  if  to  seek  the  cause  of  her  complaint ;  but  seeing 
only  the  peaceful  bearers  by  her  side,  and  the  single  sentry 
maintaining  his  post  in  advance,  he  turned  a  look  of  per- 
plexity upon  the  fair  supplicant. 

Mistaking  simple  perplexity  for  hesitation,  Kishna  drew 
aside  her  veil,  and  looked  imploringly  in  his  face ;  but  as  a 
.sudden  thought  flashed  upon  her  mind  she  unclasped  one  of 
her  bracelets,  formed  of  gold  chains  and  gems,  and  threw  it 
across  the  unresisting  arm  of  the  stranger.  "  I  have  im- 
plored you,"  said  she,  proudly,  "as  a  man  and  a  Rajpoot;  I 
now  command  you  as  my  Rakhi-bund  Bhae*  to  perform  the 
behests  of  a  sister!"  Pride,  joy,  and  astonishment  swept  by 
turns  across  the  stranger's  face,  but  without  removing  in 
their  swift  career  its  perplexity.  He  sunk  upon  his  knees, 
and  raising  his  dagger  to  his  forehead,  pledged  himself  so- 
lemnly to  obey  her  commands  whatever  they  might  be,  were 
rhey  even  to  plunge  that  dagger  in  his  heart.  Kishna  bent 
over  the  young  warrior  with  clasped  hands,  and  pronounced 
The  asees  or  blessing,  only  to  be  conferred  by  a  woman  or  a 
priest;  and  then,  waving  above  his  head  a  rich  jewel  which 
she  plucked  from  her  hair,  presented  it  with  graceful  dignity 
to  the  attendant  who  stood  nearest. 

"  My  brother,"  said  she,  drawing  back,  "I  am  Kishna, 
The  Komari  of  Shapoora,  and  the  service  I  require  of  you  is 
to  conduct  me  to  my  father,  from  whom  this  morning  I  was 
basely  and  treacherously  abducted."  The  stranger  continued 
gazing  in  her  face  for  some  time  after  the  words  had  passed 
her  lips,  apparently  without  any  conception  of  their  meaning; 
and  when  at  length  he  rose  up,  the  stare  he  threw  around  was 

*  Bracelet-bound  brother. 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  271 

so  ghastly  and  bewildered,  that  Kishna  was  half  tempted  to 
believe  he  was  paralyzed  by  fear  of  the  adventure. 

"Can  it  be,"  said  she,  "that  I  am  mistaken — that  I  have 
bound  with  the  sacred  rakhi  one  who  is  insensible  of  its  value, 
or  ignorant  of  the  duty  it  imposes  on  every  man  of  courage, 
piety,  and  honor?"  While  she  spoke,  the  face  of  the  stranger 
became  as  calm  as  polished  marble,  and  as  cold.  A  slight 
tremor  of  the  lip,  indeed — a  scarcely  audible  catching  of  the 
breath  remained,  but  only  for  a  moment,  to  indicate  the 
existence  of  emotion  within,  and  he  answered  with  a  steady 
voice — 

"You  are  not  mistaken;  the  service  you  require  shall  be 
performed,  whatever  sacrifice  it  may  involve.  So  help  me 
heaven,  T  will  be  true  to  the  faith  of  a  Rajpoot!"  And  so 
saying,  he  conducted  his  charge  to  her  litter,  drew  around 
her  the  curtains  with  his  own  hand,  and  in  another  moment 
Kishna  was  on  her  return  from  the  mountains. 

When  the  necessity  of  action  was  over,  the  thoughts  of 
Kishna  began  to  prey  upon  themselves.  The  events  of  this 
important  day  passed  in  review  before  her,  and  her  busy 
imagination  traced  a  connection  and  relationship  between 
things,  which  in  their  acted  moments  had  appeared  the  result 
of  accident.  The  Abyssinian,  that  strange  and  terrible  gola, 
by  whose  enchantment  the  adventures  of  the  day  seemed  to 
have  arisen,  occupied  a  prominent  place  in  these  waking 
dreams  ;  and  the  young  and  handsome  stranger,  who  was 
just  exerting  a  no  less  powerful  influence  over  her  destiny, 
seemed  by  the  very  force  of  contrast  to  be  inseparably  linked 
with  him  in  her  fancy.  A  strange  suspicion  flashed  across 
her  brain,  as  the  shadowy  figures  glided  before  her;  but  it 
wras  so  indistinct  and  confused  that  she  seemed  appalled 
rather  with  the  sense  of  some  unknown  misfortune  than  ter- 
rified at  any  obvious  evil.  Her  heart  sickened  as  she  felt 
herself  hurried  along  to  the  arms  even  of  a  father  and  a 
husband,  and  oppressed  with  the  confusion  of  her  thoughts, 


272  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

which  she  had  not  courage  to  examine  and  arrange,  the  Raj- 
pootni,  who  an  hour  before  would  have  plunged  with  steady 
hand  a  dagger  into  her  heart,  leant  back  in  her  trembling 
litter  and  gave  way  to  her  tears. 

In  another  hour  she  heard  her  conductor  challenged  by 
voices  which  she  recognized  as  those  of  her  father's  attend- 
ants, and  she  started  up  and  drew  aside  the  curtain.  No 
sooner  had  her  eye  caught  the  figure  of  the  stranger,  who, 
with  drawn  sword,  and  in  an  attitude  of  fierce  menace,  thrust 
aside  the  weapons  of  his  challengers,  than  a  flash  of  light- 
ning darted  through  the  chaos  of  her  brain. 

"The  Abyssinian!  the  Abyssinian!"  she  almost  shrieked; 
but  at  this  moment  the  litter  was  set  down — a  hand  grasped 
her,  she  knew  not  wherefore,  nor  by  whom, — she  tottered, 
rather  than  walked,  into  the  raja's  tent, — and  on  the  stranger's 
presenting  her  to  her  father,  while  the  assembled  chiefs  ex- 
claimed in  voices  of  astonishment,  "  Samarsi  of  Amergurh!" 
she  sank  fainting  upon  the  ground. 

The  next  moment,  however,  the  noise  of  the  swords,  which 
rattled  instinctively  from  their  scabbards  at  the  appearance 
of  so  formidable  an  enemy,  awoke  the  maiden  of  Shapoora 
from  her  trance,  although  without  restoring  her  recollection. 

The  delicacy  of  her  sex — the  honor  of  her  house — the  pro- 
prieties of  time,  place,  rank — all  vanished  from  before  her 
eyes;  she  saw  but  a  host  of  blades  pointed  against  the  bosom 
of  her  Rakhi-bund  Bhae,  and  with  a  scream  which  startled 
the  hardiest  warriors  of  that  wild  group,  she  threw  herself 
before  him,  and  encircling  with  one  arm  his  neck,  pointed 
with  the  other  her  jeweled  dagger  against  his  enemies.  The 
swords  of  the  Rajpoots  fell  instantaneously,  as  if  by  word 
of  command,  with  a  heavy  clank  upon  the  ground ;  and 
Kishna  startled  from  her  dream,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  sank  lifeless  at  Samarsi's  feet. 

The  fury  and  dismay  of  the  raja  cannot  be  adequately  de- 
scribed ;  he  dashed  down  his  turban,  swore,  and  blasphemed, 


KISHNA    KOMARI.  273 

and  was  only  withheld  by  main  force  from  poniarding  his 
daughter  upon  the  spot.  The  emotions  of  the  Pokurna  chief 
were  less  violent  but  more  manly. 

"My  conqueror  in  love  as  well  as  in  arms,"  said  he,  ap- 
proaching Samarsi,  "you  this  morning  presented  me  with  my 
forfeited  life,  and   now  you  restore   my  captured  mistress! 
Let  us  henceforth  be  rivals  only  in  generosity  ;  and  let  us 
now  seize  an  opportunity,  when  so  many  chiefs  are  assembled 
for  the  purpose  of  social  enjoyment — when  so  many  bosoms 
are  warmed  by  a  living  picture  of  that  love  and  honor  which 
were  wont  to  live  only  in  the  songs  of  the  bards — to  unite, 
in   brotherly  alliance,  those  brave   hearts  and  daring  hands 
whose  disunion  has  been  the  cause  of  so  many  evils  to  our 
lost  but  still  lovely  Rajast'han."     This  generous  speech  was 
followed  by  a  burst  of  applause,  which  became  still  louder, 
when  the  Pokurna  chief  signified   solemnly  his  unqualified 
adherence  to  the  political  concessions  which  were  to  have 
been  purchased  by  the  hand  of  Kishna;  and  the  raja,  happy 
to  preserve  the  honor  of  his  family,  while  he  extinguished  a 
troublesome    and    dangerous    feud,   without    sacrificing  the 
interest  of  the  rana,  was  easily  prevailed  upon  to  extend  the 
right  hand  to  Samarsi,  and  revert  to  his  original  intentions  in 
the  disposal  of  his  daughter's  hand. 

Meanwhile  the  alarm  was  given  by  the  outposts  of  the 
camp,  and  the  troops  of  Amergurh,  with  their  Bhil  allies,  a 
rude  and  savage  race,  armed  only  with  bows  and  arrows, 
were  seen  taking  their  station  in  great  force  upon  the  neigh- 
boring heights.  The  chief,  having  received  intimation  of  his 
son's  frenzied  adventure,  had  hastened  to  protect  or  revenge 
him.  It  may  be  conceived  that  only  a  few  words  from  the 
full  heart  of  Samarsi  were  necessary  to  induce  his  father  to 
descend  the  steep  with  his  sheathed  sword ;  and  when  the 
fine  old  man  entered  the  camp  of  his  heretofore  enemy,  the 
extemporaneous  songs  of  the  bards  already  met  his  ear,  cele- 
brating the  fierce  wars  and  faithful  loves  of  Shapoora  and 
Amergurh. 


THE    FAVORITE    FLOWER 


BY  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 


"In  the  East,  the  poppy  is  used  to  express  passion ;  the  rosebud  (as  else- 
where) is  die  emblem  of  hope." — Langage  ties  Fleurs. 

Twine  not  the  rose,  the  thorny  rose, 

To  wreath  around  that  gentle  brow, 
Nor  tax  thy  loving  heart  to  choose 

An  offering  thy  regard  to  show  ; 
Ah!  vainly  for  thy  lover's  breast, 

Thou  cullest  from  that  perfumed  store 
Some  bud  more  crimson  than  the  rest — 

Thou  hast  not  guess'd  the  Favorite  Flower! 

Thine  be  the  starlike  jasmine,  pale 

And  cold  as  cloister'd  maiden's  face; 
Thine  be  the  lilac,  faint  and  frail, 

And  thine  the  clustering  rosebud's  grace. 
But  me  the  burning  poppy  bring, 

Which  evermore  with  fever' d  eye, 
Unfreshen'd  by  the  dews  of  spring. 

Stands  gazing  at  the  glowing  sky: — 

Whose  scarlet  petals  flung  apart 

(Crimson'd  with  passion,  not  with  shame), 

Hang  round  his  sear'd  and  blacken'd  heart, 
Flickering  and  hot,  like  tongues  of  flame! 


THE    FAVORITE    FLOWER.  275 

Scentless,  unseemly  though  it  be, 

That  passion-lorn  and  scorch 'd  up  flower, — 

'Tis  dearer  far  to  love  and  me, 
Than  those  which  twine  ev'n  round  thy  bower. 

For  well  its  burning  tablets  say 

What  words  and  sighs  would  vainly  speak: — 
My  Zoe !  turn  not  thus  away 

Thy  downcast  eye  and  kindling  cheek; 
Too  oft  thy  patient  slave  hath  caught 

Hope's  emblem  from  thy  playful  hand — 
When  will  "the  Favorite  Flower"  be  brought, 

The  Poppy  of  our  eastern  land? 


THE    PROPHETESS. 

The  character  of  Cassandra,  as  represented  by  Shakspeare, 
has  been  considered  rather  a  barren  and  uninteresting  one  ; 
but  like  all  the  other  creations  of  the  great  master  spirit  of 
the  drama,  it  is  equal  to  the  occasion,  and  true  to  history ; 
or,  as  it  may  be  more  exactly  expressed,  true  to  the  very 
apocryphal  legends  and  verses  which  record  the  fall  of  Troy. 
Up  to  the  moment  when  she  presents  herself  as  one  of  the 
dramatis  persona  of  "  Troilus  and  Cressida,"  she  is  simply 
the  maiden,  cursed  by  Apollo,  and  made  to  utter  true  pro- 
phecies which  should  never  be  believed. 

Could  we  suppose  a  female  possessing  this  power  of  look- 
ing into  the  future,  hearing  the  voices  of  the  spiritual  world, 
conscious  of  this  power,  and  constantly  derided  and  dis- 
believed, she  would  present  herself  to  the  imagination,  pre- 
cisely as  she  is  represented  in  the  following  brief  but  striking 
scene  where  she  interrupts  the  conversation  of  Priam,  Troilus 
and  Hector. 

Cas.  [Within.]  Cry,  Trojans,  cry! 

Pri.  What  noise  ?  what  shriek  is  this? 

Tro.   'Tis  our  mad  sister,  I  do  know  her  voice. 

Cas.  [Within.]  Cry,  Trojans! 

Hect.  It  is  Cassandra. 


,      .  .       «      > 

■       ■ 

t  »         ■ 


!■* 


.  > 


THE    PROPHETESS.  277 


Enter  Cassandra,  raving. 


Cas.  Cry,  Trojans,  cry!  lend  me  ten  thousand  eyes, 
And  I  will  fill  them  with  prophetic  tears. 
Hect.  Peace,  sister,  peace. 

Cas.  Virgins,  and  boys,  mid-age,  and  wrinkled  old, 
Soft  infancy,  that  nothing  canst  but  cry, 
Add  to  my  clamors!  let  us  pay  betimes 
A  moiety  of  that  mass  of  moan  to  come. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry!  practise  your  eyes  with  tears! 
Troy  must  not  be,  nor  goodly  Ilion  stand ; 
Our  firebrand  brother,  Paris,  burns  us  all. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry!  a  Helen,  and  a  woe: 
Cry,  cry!  Troy  burns,  or  else  let  Helen  go.     [Exit. 

Hect.  Now,  youthful  Troilus,  do  not  these  high  strains 
Of  divination  in  our  sister  work 
Some  touches  of  remorse  ?  or  is  your  blood 

So  madly  hot,  that  no  discourse  of  reason, 

Nor  fear  of  bad  success  in  a  bad  cause, 

Can  qualify  the  same  ? 

Tro.  Why,  brother  Hector, 

We  may  not  think  the  justness  of  each  act 

Such  and  no  other  than  event  doth  form  it ; 

Nor  once  deject  the  courage  of  our  minds 

Because  Cassandra's  mad;  her  brain-sick  raptures 

Cannot  distaste  the  goodness  of  a  quarrel 

Which  hath  our  several  honors  all  engag'd 

To  make  it  gracious.     For  my  private  part, 

I  am  no  more  touch'd  than  all  Priam's  sons: 

And  Jove  forbid,  there  should  be  done  amongst  us 

Such  things  as  might  offend  the  weakest  spleen 

To  fight  for  and  maintain  ! 

Again,  when  she   appears,  endeavoring  to  dissuade  her 
brother,  Hector,  from  going  to  the  field,  when  she  knows  that 
if  he  goes  out  to  meet  the  enemy  he  will  never  return  alive. 
24 


278  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

Enter  Cassandra,  with  Priam. 

Cas.  Lay  hold  upon  him,  Priam,  hold  him  fast : 
He  is  thy  crutch ;  now  if  thou  lose  thy  stay, 
Thou  on  him  leaning,  and  all  Troy  on  thee, 
Fall  all  together. 

Pri.  Come,  Hector,  come,  go  back: 

Thy  wife  hath  dream'd ;  thy  mother  hath  had  visions; 
Cassandra  doth  foresee ;  and  I  myself 
Am  like  a  prophet  suddenly  enrapt, 
To  tell  thee  that  this  day  is  ominous : 
Therefore,  come  back. 

Hect.  ./Eneas  is  a-field ; 

And  I  do  stand  engag'd  to  many  Greeks, 
Even  in  the  faith  of  valor,  to  appear 
This  morning  to  them. 

Pri.  Ay,  but  thou  shalt  not  go. 

Hect.  I  must  not  break  my  faith. 
You  know  me  dutiful;  therefore,  dear  sir, 
Let  me  not  shame  respect ;  but  give  me  leave 
To  take  that  course  by  your  consent  and  voice, 
Which  you  do  here  forbid  me,  royal  Priam. 

Cas.  0  Priam,  yield  not  to  him. 

And.  Do  not,  dear  father. 

Hect.  Andromache,  I  am  offended  with  you: 
Upon  the  love  you  bear  me,  get  you  in. 

[Exit  Andromache. 

Tro.  This  foolish,  dreaming,  superstitious  girl 
Makes  all  these  bodements. 

Cas.  0  farewell,  dear  Hector. 

Look,  how  thou  diest!  look,  how  thy  eye  turns  pale! 
Look,  how  thy  wounds  do  bleed  at  many  vents ! 
Hark,  how  Troy  roars!  how  Hecuba  cries  out! 
How  poor  Andromache  shrills  her  dolor  forth! 
Behold  destruction,  frenzy,  and  amazement, 


THE    PROPHETESS.  279 

Like  witless  antics,  one  another  meet, 

And  all  cry— Hector!  Hector's  dead!  0  Hector! 

Tro.  Away! — Away! 

Cas.  Farewell.— Yet,  soft.— Hector,  I  take  my  leave: 
Thou  dost  thyself  and  all  our  Troy  deceive.     [Exit. 

Hect.  You  are  amaz'd,  my  liege,  at  her  exclaim : 
Go  in,  and  cheer  the  town ;  we'll  forth,  and  fight ; 
Do  deeds  worth  praise,  and  tell  you  them  at  night. 

Pri.  Farewell:  the  gods  with  safety  stand  about  thee! 
[Exeunt  severally  Priam  and  Hector. 

Here  we  see  the  power  of  the  master.  The  delineation 
would  seem  forced,  exaggerated,  if  she  were  not  a  prophetess. 
Under  other  circumstances,  Cassandra's  language  would 
seem  pure  rant  and  fustian.  But  let  us  for  a  moment  con- 
ceive her  to  have  the  whole  death-scene  vividly  portrayed  to 
her  spiritual  vision,  and  the  language  she  utters  is  perfectly 
natural  and  unforced.  It  is  ever  thus  with  Shakspeare. 
The  more  carefully — rigidly  we  examine  his  delineations  of 
character,  the  more  evidence  do  we  discover  of  his  intuitive 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 


ORSINA    BRANDINI 

A  TALE. 


BY  MART  BOTLE. 


The  overture  had  scarcely  commenced,  when  Lady  Aber- 
ford,  accompanied  by  her  husband  and  his  nephew,  entered 
her  opera-box,  on  the  eventful  night  of  a  new  prima  donna's 
first  appearance.  After  having  remarked  with  pleasure  that 
the  curtain  was  still  down,  she  entreated  her  two  companions 
with  playful  earnestness,  to  remain  by  her  side,  and  not  to 
cede  their  places  to  any  who  entered  until  the  conclusion  of 
the  first  act  at  least. 

"I  promise  myself  much  pleasure,"  she  said,  "  and  shall 
experience  none  unless  you  are  both  here.  You  know  how 
often  we  have  anticipated  this  night,  and  how  often  we  have 
talked  over  the  young  debutante ;  and  I  must  own  that  the 
story  I  heard  of  her  misfortunes,  the  other  evening,  has 
greatly  added  to  the  interest  I  always  feel  in  a  first  ap- 
pearance." 

"My  dear  aunt,"  replied  Henry  Brudenell,  "  you  forget 
that  I  never  heard  the  Brandini's  story ;  and  although  to 
please  you  I  am  prepared  to  clap  off  my  hands  in  her  service, 
to  fall  in  love  with  her  before  she  appears,  and  to  take  out 
my  pocket  handkerchief  as  often  as  I  see  yours  lifted  to  your 
eyes,  I  should  be  more  likely  to  do  all  these  things  con 
amove,  if  I  were  acquainted  with  all  the  miseries  which  are 
the  necessary  ingredients  in  the  composition  of  a  heroine." 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  281 

"  Her  miseries  would  make  a  long  story,  I  am  afraid,  if 
all  were  told,"  replied  Lady  Aberford;  "but  all  that  is 
known  upon  the  subject  may  go  into  shorter  space,  and 
yet  be  quite  enough  to  stir  up  the  spirit  of  romance  at  the 
bottom  of  your  heart,  Henry;  so  listen  till  the  curtain  rises." 

It  appeared  from  her  account,  that  Orsina  Brandini  was 
the  natural  child  of  a  German  count,  who  deserted  her 
mother  either  before  or  very  soon  after  the  child's  birth. 
That  unfortunate  woman,  it  seemed,  had  brought  up  the  little 
girl  in  a  most  exemplary  manner,  and  instilled  into  her  mind 
those  precepts  of  morality  and  virtue  which  she  herself  had 
so  fatally  transgressed.  She  had  been  a  singer,  but  retired 
from  the  stage  previous  to  her  acquaintance  with  the  Count; 
and  after  their  separation,  her  talent  enabled  her  to  support 
herself  and  her  child  by  singing  at  private  houses,  until  her 
death,  which  happened  at  an  age  when  the  care  and  vigi- 
lance of  a  mother  are  most  needed.  The  poor  orphan  knew 
not  where  to  fly  for  protection  in  her  destitute  situation;  but 

a  lady,  the  Marchesa  C ,  who  had  patronized  her  mother, 

sent  for  her,  and  rescued  her  from  distress. 

Orsina  possessed  a  magnificent  voice,  far  superior  to  that 
of  her  mother,  who  had,  however,  cultivated  and  improved 
this  desirable  talent;  but  dreading  lest  her  darling  child 
should  enter  on  the  same  dangerous  profession  as  herself, 
she  had  impressed  upon  the  mind  of  Orsina  that  her  voice 
was  not  sufficiently  good  to  be  tolerated  in  society,  although 
valuable  as  an  amusement  to  herself.     It  was  by  chance, 

therefore,  that  the  Marchesa  C discovered  the  fact;  and 

after  taking  the  opinion  of  some  connoisseurs,  she  came  to 
the  decision  that  the  stage  was  the  only  field  of  success  that 
was  open  to  her  protegee ;  and  as  she  and  her  husband  had 
already  determined  on  a  journey  to  England,  they  agreed  to 
conduct  the  young  Brandini  thither.  They  gave  her  the 
best  masters  that  the  large  towns  afforded,  and  lost  no  oppor- 

24* 


282  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

tunity  of  her  singing  in  public;  so  that  ere  she  arrived  in 
London  her  fame  had  preceded  her,  and  the  director  of  the 
Opera-house,  after  some  persuasion,  one  or  two  private  even- 
ings, and  several  letters  of  recommendation  from  the  conti- 
nent, at  last  decided  on  engaging  her  for  the  ensuing  spring, 
which  he  was  the  more  willing  to  do,  as  the  famous , 


with  whom  he  was  in  correspondence,  refused  to  sing  under 
a  sum  more  exorbitant  than  had  ever  been  recorded  in  the 
annals  of  the  drama. 

"  They  tell  me,"  said  Lady  Aberford,  "  that  since  the  death 
of  the  Marchesa's  husband,  which  happened  a  few  months 
ago,  her  manner  is  much  changed  towards  her  protegee, 
whom  she  is  continually  taunting  with  the  obligations  under 
which  she  lies.  This  I  can  scarcely  believe ;  but  at  all 
events  we  have  heard  enough  for  both  Aberford  and  myself 
to  become  interested  in  her  fate;  and  you  also,  Harry,  I 
think,"  she  said,  laughing;  "for  you  look  so  attentive,  I  am 
quite  flattered  at  the  success  of  my  long  story." 

"Hush!  hush!"  exclaimed  Lord  Aberford ;  "the  curtain 
is  rising,  and  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  one  bar  of  the  Norma." 

The  two  first  scenes  seemed  longer  than  usual;  but  when 
the  beautiful  march  and  solemn  chorus  of  the  Druids,  which 
preceded  the  entry  of  the  priestess,  were  first  heard,  Lady 
Aberford  bent  forward  over  the  box,  and  Henry  Brudenell's 
eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  the  altar,  behind  which  she  was 
to  appear.  It  was  a  breathless  moment;  the  chorus  con- 
cluded— the  symphony  was  played  twice;  when  a  stunning 
round  of  applause,  that  seemed  to  roll  backwards  and  for- 
wards from  each  side  of  the  house,  announced  her  entry. 
Henry  Brudenell's  countenance  fell  as  he  first  beheld  her, 
for  she  did  not  equal  the  picture  his  enthusiastic  imagination 
had  drawn;  but  he  made  no  audible  remark.  Her  entry 
was  neither  composed  nor  timid ;  it  seemed  as  if  a  high  ex- 
citement lent  her  a  courage  that  was  foreign  to  her  nature. 
It  would  be  exaggeration  to  call  her  beautiful,  or  to  say  that 


0R3INA    BRANDINI.  283 

she  looked  the  character  she  personified  on  that  evening;  yet 
the  plain  white  drapery  fell  gracefully  round  her  young  form, 
and  the  snowy  veil  and  oaken  wreath  contrasted  well  with 
her  dark  brown  hair.  It  was  a  face  that  in  repose  was  not 
striking — it  might  have  passed  in  a  multitude  without  drawing 
a  remark  either  way  from  a  casual  observer ;  but  when  she 
ascended  the  Druidical  stone,  and  gazed  around  her  for  one 
moment — when,  waving  the  magic  sickle  over  her  head,  she 
commenced  the  recitative — it  appeared  as  if  she  had  forgotten 
that  on  that  moment  depended  the  hopes  of  her  future  life — 
that  ears  were  open  to  criticise,  and  tongues  ready  to  con- 
demn the  slightest  fault — the  slightest  misconception  of  her 
part.  Many  might,  and  many  did  misjudge  her,  and  con- 
demned the  unparalleled  boldness  that  characterized  the  first 
appearance  of  a  girl  of  eighteen.  But  Lady  Aberford  was 
one  accustomed  to  study  the  human  countenance.  She  had 
seen  the  momentary  tremor  of  the  girl's  first  appearance;  she 
had  seen  a  tear  wiped  away  at  the  burst  of  applause ;  and 
she  judged  the  young  debutante  differently,  and  more  cor- 
rectly than  others  did.  The  opera  wrent  on,  and,  carried 
away  by  the  magic  of  the  scene,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  au- 
dience and  the  powers  of  the  actress  seemed  to  increase 
together.  How  concentrated  wras  the  expression  she  gave 
to  the  one  line,  "  Ma  punirlo  il  cor  non  sal" 

Her  interview  with  her  unconscious  rival  was  as  success- 
ful as  the  former  scene,  but  her  triumphant  moment  was  that 
in  which  she  first  beholds  their  mutual  lover.  Unlike  too 
many  of  her  profession  who  forget  the  actress  in  the  singer, 
she  stood  transfixed  at  his  entry:  her  slender  form  appeared 
visibly  to  increase  in  height — her  eye  flashed — her  lip  curled, 
and  she  appeared  the  embodying  of  disdain !  The  few 
moments  of  silence  wrere  awful,  and  when  her  voice  was 
again  heard,  the  tone  was  utterly  changed — low,  deep,  as 
though  choked  by  internal  emotion.  She  approached  him 
with  a  gesture  at  once  menacing  and  dignified,  and  bade  him 


284  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

tremble  for  himself,  for  his  children  and  for  her!  All  the 
tenderness  of  her  manner  had  vanished  in  that  moment  of 
bitter  anguish,  when,  seizing  the  arm  of  her  rival,  she  com- 
pelled her  to  look  on  the  man  that  had  obscured  the  "  morning 
of  her  day."  Had  any  one  gazed  on  her  at  that  moment  and 
thought  of  her  first  entry,  they  could  hardly  have  recognized 
her  as  the  same.  She  left  the  stage  with  undisguised  marks 
of  agitation;  and  the  party  in  Lady  Aberford's  box  looked 

and  listened  with  breathless  attention  till  the  curtain  fell. 

***** 

At  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  Henry  Brudenell  entered 
his  aunt's  drawing-room  the  next  morning,  and  found  her, 
to  his  great  satisfaction,  alone.  "I  am  come,"  he  said,  "to 
talk  over  Norma  with  you,  for  it  is  in  vain  attempting  to  do 
so  with  my  mother,  who  is,  as  we  all  know,  a  most  excellent 
and  high-bred  dame;  but  one  who  is  utterly  incapable  of 
understanding  my  flights  of  enthusiasm ;  she  only  perceives 
in  last  night's  performance,  a  successful  prima  donna,  and 
when  I  begin  to  speak  on  the  subject,  she  looks  up  from  her 
tambour-frame,  and  asks  if  I  am  going  to  fall  in  love  with  an 
actress.  Now,  I  know  your  opinions  are  different,  and  there- 
fore we  may  converse  without  danger  of  misunderstanding 
each  other." 

"You  need  not  fear  my  want  of  enthusiasm  on  the  sub- 
ject," replied  his  aunt;  "I  have  already  decided  that  a  little 
concert,  with  our  Brandini  to  sing,  will  be  the  most  agree- 
hlefete  I  can  offer  on  Lord  Aberford's  birthday,  and  have 
determined  on  arranging  one,  in  which  task  you  shall  as- 
sist me." 

Lady  Aberford  was  one  of  those  peculiarly  happy  beings, 
whose  life  flows  on  in  one  uninterrupted  course  of  prosperi- 
ty.— The  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  a  noble  family,  she 
passed  her  childhood  in  the  enjoyment  of  parental  fondness, 
and  only  surrendered  the  happiness  of  a  beloved  daughter  for 
that  of  an  adored  wife. — Married  at  an  early  age  to  the  man 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  285 

her  heart  had  chosen,  who  was  alike  distinguished  by 
his  birth,  fortune,  and  talents,  she  knew  well  how  to  value 
such  a  destiny,  and  added  fresh  lustre  to  the  name  she  bore. 
She  found  in  the  society  of  her  husband  an  attraction  far  su- 
perior to  any  that  could  be  afforded  by  the  amusements  of  a 
London  life,  and  devoted  herself  entirely  to  rendering  him 
happy;  nor  did  she  ever  regret  that  his  taste  led  him  to  reside 
principally  at  their  country  seat,  which,  during  a  long  minority, 
had  been  greatly  neglected.  Under  a  stern  and  apparently 
cold  demeanor,  Lord  Aberford  concealed  a  warm  heart  and 
a  somewhat  hasty  temper,  but  since  his  marriage,  the  gentle 
influence  of  his  wife,  who  loved,  respected,  and  appreciated 
him,  controlled  this  foible,  and  mitigated  a  resentful  spirit, 
which  had  sometimes  in  early  life  obscured  his  nobler  quali- 
ties. One  grief,  for  so  it  was,  in  spite  of  Lady  Aberford's 
endeavors  to  persuade  herself  of  the  contrary,  alone  decreased 
the  measure  of  their  happiness.  They  had  no  children,  and 
Lady  Aberford,  endowed  with  all  the  qualities  which  are  so 
invaluable  in  a  mother,  deeply  regretted  the  denial  of  the 
blessing. 

Henry  Brudenell,  her  husband's  heir,  and  the  only  son  of 
her  widowed  sister-in-law,  Lady  Isabella,  stood  indeed  in  the 
relation  of  a  son  to  Lady  Aberford,  who  loved  him  with  all 
the  ardor  of  maternal  attachment;  but  his  actual  parent  was 
so  complete  a  contrast  to  the  rest  of  the  family,  that  little 
pleasure  could  be  derived  from  her  society.  Her  pride  was 
not  that  pride  of  birth  which  urges  a  parent  to  impress  on 
the  mind  of  his  child  the  necessity  of  prolonging  the  respect- 
ability of  an  illustrious  name :  it  was  a  selfish,  narrow-minded 
pride,  that  led  her  to  despise  many  who  were  far  above  her 
in  the  scale  of  intellect  and  excellence. — She  loved  her  bro- 
ther, because  he  was  her  brother,  and  the  chief  of  the  name 
she  gloried  in. — She  courted  her  sister-in-law  for  the  same 
reason;  but  no  sympathy  existed  between  them;  nor  was 
it  without  some  degree  of  jealousy  that  she  perceived  the 


286  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

affection  which  Henry  entertained  for  an  aunt  who  in  no 
way  resembled  her. 

The   eventful   evening  of  the   concert   arrived;    and  the 

Brandini  appeared,  preceded  by  the   Marchesa   C ,   a 

handsome,  haughty-looking  woman,  who  presented  her,  with 
an  air  of  protection,  which  added  not  a  little  to  her  confusion ; 
indeed,  her  timidity  was  excessive,  and  she  colored  deeply, 
on  perceiving  how  many  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her. — She 
was  dressed  with  perfect  simplicity,  and  Henry  Brudenell 
remarked  that  she  appeared  much  younger  off  the  stage,  and 
that  her  manner  had  something  almost  childish  in  its  charac- 
ter. Lady  Aberford  was  obliged  to  converse  with  the  Mar- 
chesa, by  which  means  the  Brandini  fell  to  the  share  of 
Lady  Isabella,  whose  abrupt  and  somewhat  ill-timed  ques- 
tions were  not  calculated  to  restore  the  self-possession  of  a 
timid  girl.  At  a  sign  from  his  wife,  Lord  Aberford  stepped 
forward,  and  led  the  young  songstress  to  the  piano-forte, 
with  an  encouraging  smile;  and,  once  more  launched  on  the 
ocean  of  song,  all  traces  of  confusion  vanished,  and  she 
became  the  inspired  priestess  that  had  before  charmed  all 
ears.  She  ceased ;  and  as  the  Marchesa  was  now  encircled 
by  a  little  knot  of  her  own  compatriotes,  Lady  Aberford  con- 
ducted Mdlle.  Brandini  to  a  seat  near  herself,  expressing  her 
entire  approbation  of  the  performance,  at  the  same  time 
regretting  that  she  was  but  a  bad  Italian  scholar,  and  could 
therefore  say  but  half  she  wished  on  the  subject. — But  the 
other  replied  in  very  good  English,  and  assured  her  how 
much  she  wished  to  improve  herself  in  that  language. 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  said,  "  and  have  taken 
away  all  fear,  that  I  at  first  felt,  in  coming  here  and  singing 
before  so  many  strangers;  and  the  more  so  as  the  marchesa 
told  me  she  feared  my  voice  would  be  too  overpowering  for 
a  room."  "  She  is  very  kind  to  you?"  inquired  Lady  Aber- 
ford. She  hesitated — "Oh,  yes,  she  has  done  many  things 
for  me,  and  spent  much  money  upon  me,  which  I  can  never 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  287 

repay ;  for  though  I  of  course  give  her  the  salary  I  receive 
from  the  opera,  yet  she  has  to  expend  a  great  deal  on  my 
dress  and  other  things." 

Lady  Aberford   thought  not,  as  she  looked  down  at  the 
plain  muslin  gown.— "  You  seem  fatigued,"  she  remarked; 
"is  not  the  excitement  which  attends  your  singing,  hurt- 
ful to  your  health?"     "  I  think  not,"  she  replied  ;   "  it  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  me ;  but  I  have  certainly  little  or  no  repose, 
for  every  night  that  I  do  not  sing  at  the  opera,  the  Marchesa 
wishes  me  to  entertain  her  visitors  until  a  late  hour." — 
Here  Henry  Brudenell  came  up,  and  was  presented  to  her, 
while  his  aunt  relinquished  her  place  to  him,  that  she  might 
receive  some  new  guest.     He  was  delighted  with  the  natural 
and  unaffected  manner  in  which  she  conversed,   and  was 
actually  sorry  when  she  again  resumed  her  place,  though  it 
was  to  sing  a  cavatina  that  he  loved.     She  was  overwhelmed 
with  thanks  and  with  compliments  from  every  one ;  and  as 
she  again  took  her  seat  on  the  sofa,  Henry  once  more  ap- 
proached her,  notwithstanding  several  perceptible  glances 
from  his  mother,  indicating  her  desire  for  him  to  be  more 
repandu,  as  she  called  it. 

Orsina  was  charmed  that  one  who  understood  and  loved 
her  language  as  he  did,  should  approve  of  the  expression  she 
gave  to°the  cavatina,  and  she  found  great  pleasure  in  listen- 
ing to  his  remarks.     Lady  Aberford  and  the  Marchesa  now 
approached  them,  and  the  former  begged  Orsina  would  do  as 
she  felt  inclined   about  singing  any  more.     "  The  Signonna 
is  tired,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  young  Brudenell.     "  A  little," 
she  answered,  timidly ;  but  the  Marchesa  looked  at  her  stern- 
ly, and  pronounced  her  name  in  so  loud  a  voice,  that  the  poor 
girl  started  and  looked  up,  while  her  protectress  remarked  in 
Italian,  that  for  the  sum  she  was  to  receive,  she  could  not  in 
conscience    suppose    she  had    sung    enough    that    evening. 
Orsina  rose,  the  blood  rushed  into  her  cheeks  and  temples, 
but  she  suppressed  her  feelings,  and  sitting  down  to  the  in- 


288  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

strument  she  inquired  passively  what  the  Marchesa  wished 
for. 

A  song  was  named,  and  she  struggled  through  it,  though 
the  emotions  of  wounded  pride,  and  the  sense  of  being  treated 
with  harshness  and  injustice,  quivered  in  every  note.  When 
she  had  concluded,  there  was  a  deep,  and,  as  Henry  Brude- 
nell  thought,  a  painful  silence.  Then  followed  hurried 
compliments  and  adieus;  and  in  a  few  minutes,  everybody 
retired  to  their  respective  homes,  and  the  concert-room  was 
abandoned. 

***** 

Parliament  was  up,  the  opera  closed,  the  campaign  of 
London  was  at  an  end,  and  the  world  were  already  on  the 
wing.  This  is  generally  an  eventful  time,  a  day  of  reckoning 
for  many  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  brilliant  city.  It  is  a  mo- 
ment when  the  mind,  thrown  back  upon  itself,  has  leisure 
to  ascertain  the  changes  that  the  turmoil  of  dissipation  may 
have  wrought.  How  many,  who,  in  the  beginning  of  the  year, 
entered  the  metropolis  with  hearts  beating  high,  in  all  the 
fluttering  expectation  of  long-anticipated  pleasure,  now  quit 
it,  chilled  by  disappointment  and  mortification,  not  unrain- 
gled  by  a  lingering  regret  for  those  pleasures  they  in  their 
better  judgment  despise;  or  worse,  with  the  young  cheek 
blanched,  and  the  young  heart  seared,  they  return  to  the 
home  of  their  childhood  to  find  it  a  dreary  waste  in  their  eyes, 
a  desert,  a  void,  stripped  of  all  the  charms  it  once  possessed 
for  them.  Others,  whose  destiny  alone  compels  them  to 
reside  for  any  time  in  the  metropolis,  now  turn  from  it  with 
unmingled  satisfaction,  and  prepare  to  enter,  with  new  in- 
terest, into  the  calm  though  varied  pursuits  of  a  country  life. 
Of  this  number  were  Lord  and  Lady  Aberford,  who  had 
already  fixed  the  day  of  their  departure,  and  looking  forward 
to  it  with  mutual  pleasure. 

***** 

It  was  one  evening,  not  long  after  the  events  just  narrated, 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  289 

that  Lady  Aberford,  returning  earlier  than  usual  from  a  din- 
ner party,  was  met  at  her  door  by  one  of  the  servants,  who 
put  a  note  into  her  hand,  saying  that  the  bearer  entreated 
her  ladyship  might  have  it  immediately,  being  of  the  greatest 
consequence ;  she  opened  the  note  hastily,  and  by  the  light 
of  the  hall  lamp,  read  as  follows: — 

"  If  the  misfortunes  of  an  exile  and  an  orphan  can  excite 
your  compassion,  let  me  entreat  you  to  come  to  me  before 
twelve  to-night,  until  which  hour  I  shall  be  alone.  For  the 
love  of  Heaven,  do  not  fail  me,  or  I  am  lost! 

"Orsina." 

Lady  Aberford  resumed  her  seat  in  the    carriage,  and 

ordered  the   coachman  to  drive  to  the  Marchesa  C 's 

house,  with  all  possible  speed.  The  servant  who  opened 
the  door  pleaded  his  strict  orders  as  an  excuse  for  not  admit- 
ting any  one,  but  Lady  Aberford  promised  to  take  all  the 
blame  of  his  disobedience  on  herself;  and,  as  she  spoke,  the 
light  of  the  lamp  fell  on  a  small  gold  coin  she  held  in  her 
hand.  Its  power  was  electric,  and  as  it  slid  into  the  man's 
open  palm,  he  assisted  the  footman  in  letting  down  the  steps; 
begging,  however,  that  the  carriage  might  turn  down  the 
next  street,  so  that  it  might  not  be  seen  at  their  door.  He 
then  led  Lady  Aberford  up  stairs,  nearly  to  the  top  of  the 
house,  where,  pointing  to  a  door,  he  put  his  finger  on  his  lips 
and  left  her.  She  knocked  gently,  but  receiving  no  answer, 
she  pushed  the  door  open  and  entered.  By  the  dim  light  of 
a  solitary  candle,  she  beheld  Orsina  Brandini  kneeling  before 
a  small  crucifix;  her  hands  were  clasped  in  all  the  fervor  of 
devotion;  her  face,  pale  as  ashes,  bore  the  traces  of  fearful 
emotion;  and  her  long  hair  hung  disheveled  on  her  shoul- 
ders. 

It  was  several  moments  before  the  poor  girl  was  aware  of 
Lady  Aberford's  presence ;  but,  turning  round,  she  uttered  a 
faint  cry,  and  sprang  towards  her. 
25 


£90  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

"  Bless  you,  bless  you,"  she  cried.  "  I  thought  I  should 
not  be  deceived  in  you  ;  I  knew  you  would  not  desert  me. 
Oh,  I  am  wretched,"  she  continued,  "  nor  do  I  even  know 
what  you  can  do  to  save  me." 

"Anything,  everything,"  replied  her  friend,  sensibly  af- 
fected by  the  grief  she  witnessed ;  "  but  lose  no  time  in  telling 
me  what  is  the  matter,  for  it  is  already  late." 

"I    have    never   told  it  before,"    cried    Orsina,    "never 
breathed  it  to  a  human  being;  but  since  the  death  of  her 
husband,  who  was   all  kindness  to  me,  the  Marchesa  has 
treated  me  most  cruelly,  most  barbarously!  I  bore  it  all  with 
patience,  and  calmed  myself  with  thinking  that  but  for  her  I 
might  have  perished  with  hunger.     The  salary  that  I  received 
from  the  opera  I  cheerfully  resigned,  and  considered  it  my 
duty  so  to  do.     But,  alas !  I  had  the  misfortune  to  please  a 
man   to  whom   she  is   much  attached,  a  countryman,  whom 
she  intended  to  marry  before  her  return  to  Italy.     Heaven  is 
my  witness    I  never    encouraged    his    attentions!     Had  he 
pleased   me,  honor   and   gratitude   would   have   forbid  such 
conduct ;  but  I  neither  like  nor  esteem  him  ;  my  indifference, 
however,  has  not  diminished  his  pursuit,  and  in  consequence 
the   Marchesa's   ill-treatment   has  increased.     She  will  not 
allow  me  to  see  any  one,  except— oh!  Lady  Aberford,  that 
any  one  should  be  so  cruel — except  one  Englishman.    When- 
ever he  comes  (which  is  now  every  day),  she  receives  him, 
and  then  sends  for  me  ;  but  his  character,  his  conversation, 
his  person,  and  his  designs  are  all  hateful  to  me,  and  rather 
than    act    as    they  would    have    me,   I    would    die!"     She 
paused  for  a  moment  and  then  continued — "  The  Marchesa 
leaves  England  in  a  week,  and   she  declares  nothing  shall 
induce  her  to  take  me  with  her:  therefore,  unless  I  do  what 
I  abhor,  I  shall    be    left    alone  pennyless  and  unprotected 
in  the  world  of  London!"     She  threw  herself  at  the  feet 
of  Lady  Aberford,  and  grasped    her   hand.  —  "Tell    me," 
she  exclaimed,  "  if  I  have  any  hope  ?     I  will  be  your  ser- 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  291 

vant,  your  menial ;  I  will  work  and  labor  for  you ;  but  oh 
save  me  from  misery,  from  wretchedness  and  shame!" 

Her  companion  raised  her  gently. 

"  Orsina,"  said  she,  "  I  never  take  any  important  step 
without  consulting  my  husband;  but  fear  not— he  will  have 
the  same  inclination,  and  more  power  than  I,  to  serve  you. 
To-morrow  we  shall  meet  again;  and  now,  my  dear  child, 
in  that  hope  compose  yourself  to  sleep :  it  is  late,  and  I  must 
be  gone  before  this  woman  returns." 

So  saying,  she  embraced  her  tenderly,  and  hurried  down 

stairs. 

The  scene  that  the  Marchesa's  small  drawing-room  exhi- 
bited on  the  following  day  must  be  left  to  the  imagination, 
for  there  is  no  satisfaction  in  dwelling  on  such  contemptible 
parts  of  life's  drama.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  Lord  Aberford 
and  his  wife  conveyed  the  half-fainting  Orsina  from  the  house 
where  she  had  been  overwhelmed  by  the  insults  of  her  two 
oppressors,  who  were,  however,  both  ultimately  awed  into 

silence. 

The  day  that  Orsina  left  London  in  company  with  her 
noble  friends  was,  indeed,  a  happy  one !  Released  from  a 
bondage  that  was  hateful  to  her,  from  a  situation  where  she 
was  constantly  exposed  to  dangers  and  temptations,  from  the 
sight  of  a  man  who  was  odious  to  her,  from  the  incessant 
dread  of  her  words  and  looks  being  misinterpreted,  she 
abandoned  herself  with  childish  ecstasy  to  the  anticipation 
of  a  bright  though  indefinite  fortune.  She  felt  that  her  young 
heart,  so  full  of  the  best  affections  of  our  nature,  might  at  last 
overflow,  and  gratitude  and  veneration  were  mingled  in  her 
attachment  to  those  who  seemed  to  her  fanciful  imagination 
guardian  angels  sent  by  Heaven  to  her  rescue. 

She  had  never  asked,  had  never  reflected  on  the  position 
she  was  to  assume  in  the  family.  Had  they  demanded  from 
her  the  most  menial  services,  she  would  have  obeyed  with 


292  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

alacrity ;  but  such  was  not  the  intention  of  her  benevolent 
protectress. 

That  evening  she  sent  for  the  Brandini,  and  proceeded 
to  tell  her  in  a  few  words,  that  Lord  Aberford  had  settled  an 
annual  sum  on  her,  and  that  she  would  always  reside  with 
them. 

"  I  only  mention  this,  my  dear  Orsina,  nowT,  because  it  is 
a  subject  on  which  we  will  not  speak  again;  I  assure  you," 
she  continued,  smiling,  "  you  will  have  no  sinecure  in  the 
multiplicity  of  offices  to  which  I  appoint  you. — First,  you  are 
to  be  my  lectrice,  and  read  to  me  as  long  as  I  think  fit ;  then 
you  are  to  be  my  private  secretary,  and  write  for  me  in  every 
known  tongue;  then  you  must  be  my  honorary  gardener,  and 
pluck  off  the  blighted  roses,  and  arrange  the  bouquets  for  my 
table,  and  a  thousand  things  that  require  taste;  and,  lastly, 
you  must  be  my  nightingale,  and  sing  to  me  whenever  the 
humor  takes  me,  both  in  and  out  of  doors,  for  here  you  will 
find  we  live  more  under  the  roof  of  heaven  than  our  own. 
Do  not  look  so  happy,  my  dear  child,  or  squeeze  my  hand  so 

hard;  but  follow  me,  and  I  will  show  you  your  apartment." 

***** 

It  was  morning,  the  sweet  fresh  morning,  when  the  infant 
accents  of  the  day  address  their  simple  orisons  to  the  God  of 
nature. 

Orsina  loved  these  hours,  and  as  she  descended  the  stairs 
hastily,  she  found  herself  bounding  across  the  lawn,  ankle 
deep  in  dew,  with  her  hair  blowing  in  the  breeze,  before  she 
had  thought  of  quitting  the  house. 

The  early  morning  is  always  dear  to  the  unburdened  heart, 
to  which  it  bears  a  close  analogy,  so  full  of  life,  of  freshness, 
and  of  promise ;  and  no  test  can  better  determine  if  the  metal 
of  content  be  still  unalloyed,  than  the  first  beat  of  the  heart, 
as  it  starts  from  unconsciousness,  ere  the  mind  be  sufficiently 
roused  to  assert  its  dominion,  or  recall  its  wanted  specula- 
tions.    It  is  at  such  a  moment  that  the  pulse  of  being  either 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  293 

expands  with  indefinite  happiness,  or  shrinks  at  once  beneath 
the  weiffht  that  a  few  hours  of  sweet  forgetfulness  had  sus- 
pended,  without  the  power  of  removing. 

Never  did  a  more  light-hearted  being  skim  the  surface  of 
this  earth's  enjoyments  than  Orsina  Brandini,  for  some  time 
after  her  arrival  in  the  country;  ever  by  the  side  of  Lady 
Aberford,  watching  her  slightest  look,  divining  her  slightest 
wish,  she  gave  a  new  interest,  and  a  new  charm,  to  the 
happy  shades  of  Aberford,  which  its  contented  possessors  had 
scarcely  believed  possible.  The  quiet  and  pleasant  retire- 
ment in  which  they  had  hitherto  lived,  was,  however,  soon 
broken  by  the  arrival  of  the  cold  and  haughty  Lady  Isabella 
Brudenell,  accompanied  by  her  son  Henry  (whose  image  had 
often  recurred  to  Orsina)  and  by  a  Miss  Vernon,  in  whose 
favor  a  warm  eulogium  from  the  lips  of  Lady  Aberford  had 
already  deeply  interested  the  young  foreigner. 

And  Mary  Vernon  amply  deserved  the  praise  so  lavishly 
bestowed.  Left  an  orphan  at  a  very  early  age,  her  character 
had  imbibed  that  peculiar  reserve  common  to  those  whose 
youth  has  been  one  of  sadness,  and  passed  among  strangers. 
The  death  of  a  dear  and  only  brother  (the  favorite  school- 
fellow, and  afterwards  college  companion  of  Henry  Brude- 
nell), deepened  the  tinge  of  melancholy  which  was,  perhaps, 
natural  to  her  sensitive  and  imaginative  temperament ;  while 
it  made  her  heiress  to  a  large  and  unencumbered  family 
property. 

Lady  Isabella  Brudenell,  who,  amongst  many  less  amiable 
schemes,  was  continually  plotting  how  to  secure  an  advan- 
tageous marriage  for  her  son,  immediately  found  it  conve- 
nient to  recall  a  tender  friendship  which  had  once  existed 
between  herself  and  Mary  Vernon's  mother;  and  to  take  the 
young  orphan  under  her  especial  protection.  During  the 
long  visits  which  were  paid  by  permission  of  Miss  Vernon's 
guardians,  to  this  fashionable  and  unexceptionable  chape- 
rone,  no  art  was  left  untried  to  bias  the  young  people  in 

25* 


294  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

favor  of  each  other:  and  whatever  might  have  been  the  result 
on  the  careless  and  generous  spirit  of  her  son,  Lady  Isabella 
had  the  satisfaction  to  perceive  that  as  far  as  her  protegee 
was  concerned,  her  labors  had  not  been  in  vain.  Meanwhile 
Orsina  and  Mary  became,  as  might  naturally  be  expected, 
inseparable  friends  and  companions.  Their  friendship  was 
mutually  advantageous,  since  the  pure  and  noble  feeling,  and 
correct  judgment  of  the  young  Englishwoman  tempered  the 
wild  enthusiasm  of  the  Italian  girl,  while  the  elasticity  and 
joyousness  of  spirit  which  distinguished  the  latter,  had  a 
beneficial  effect  on  the  tone  of  Mary  Vernon's  mind. 

And  so  the  time  passed,  swiftly  and  happily,  during  the 
months  of  September  and  October;  the  numerous  little  excur- 
sions which  were  planned  every  morning  and  carried  into 
execution  before  night  were  all  prosperous ;  and  their  even- 
ings were  spent  both  socially  and  rationally.  All  had  their 
own  peculiar  sources  of  enjoyment,  which,  like  the  separate 
tones  of  a  fine  musical  chord,  blended  together  in  a  melo- 
dious whole. 

Orsina  had  a  proud  satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  that  it 
lay  in  her  power  to  confer  pleasure  on  those  she  loved  by  the 
exercise  of  her  incomparable  talent.  Miss  Vernon  was  never 
so  happy  as  in  the  country, — Henry  Brudenell  was  happy 
everywhere, — and  Lord  and  Lady  Aberford  were  together 
and  at  home.  Even  Lady  Isabella  was  in  good  humor,  as 
she  watched  with  anxious  hope  the  apparently  increasing 
friendship  between  her  son  and  Miss  Vernon ;  and  smiled  on 
their  companionship. 

The  party  were  assembled  one  morning  at  breakfast,  when 
Lord  Aberford  entered  the  room  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 
"I  have  just  received  a  summons,"  he  said,  "from  my 
steward  at  Thurston  Hall,  and  have  formed  a  plan  for  carry- 
ing you  all  off  to  my  stronghold,  for  a  day  or  two.  Some  of 
the  party  have  never  seen  my  favorite  Thurston,  so  I  will 
brook  neither  excuse  nor  delay.     I  myself  will  drive  my  lady 


ORSINA    BRANDINT.  295 

wife  and  my  lady  sister,  and  one  of  the  gentle  two  in  the 
phaeton ;  while  you,  Harry,  w  ill  attend  the  other  on  her  pal- 
frey. I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  but  it  is  of  no  use ; 
there  is  only  one  lady's  horse,  for  you  lamed  the  other 
yourself;  and  therefore,  Henry,  you  must  allow  your  uncle 
the  pleasure  of  a  little  quiet  flirtation  as  well  as  yourself." 

Henry  laughed,  and  confessed  his  uncle  had  guessed  some- 
what shrewdly  as  to  his  unspoken  amendment,  and  after 
some  little  discussion  it  was  arranged  that  Mary,  who  was 
the  better  horsewoman  of  the  two,  should  ride,  and  that  Mile. 
Brandini  should  sit  beside  Lord  Aberford  in  the  phaeton. 
During  the  months  Orsina  had  resided  with  her  friends  she 
had  never  conversed  for  any  length  of  time  with  Lord  Aber- 
ford, and  she  was  now  surprised  and  delighted  to  find  that  a 
person  she  was  accustomed  to  regard  with  respect,  verging 
on  the  brink  of  awe,  could  enter  so  easily  into  all  her  youth- 
ful ideas,  and  reply  to  them  in  a  similar  strain. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  does  not  the  light  on  that  hill  re- 
mind you  of  your  own  country  ?  There  is  a  purple  mist  that 
bears  some  slight  resemblance  to  the  lilac  hue  of  evening  I 
used  to  love." 

"  You  never  told  me,"  exclaimed  Orsina,  eagerly,  "  that 
you  had  been  in  Italy — you  never,  never  mentioned  it  to  me 
before." 

"Do  not  be  surprised  at  that,"  replied  Lord  Aberford, 
seriously ;  "  for  as  you  grow  older,  my  dear  child,  you  will 
know  that  the  thoughts  of  past  times  invariably  have  some- 
thing melancholy  in  their  character,  even  though  your  after- 
life prove  happier  and  calmer  than  your  youth."  After  a 
pause  he  resumed:  "I  was  a  resident  in  Italy  for  some  time, 
and  I  loved  it  well — too  well,  perhaps.  You  will  scarcely 
believe,  Orsina,  that  your  sage  old  friend  was  once  a  slave 
to  his  imagination,  to  a  craving  imagination,  that  loved  the 
beautiful  land  in  which  it  found  an  inexhaustible  supply  of 
food;  but  the  eye  of  youth  has  its  peculiar  magic  magnifying 


296  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

glass,  seen  through  whose  medium  every  object  acquires  a 
double  grandeur,  and  a  brightness  not  its  own ;  and  I  might 
revisit  those  scenes  with  very  different  feelings  now." 

"Oh,  that  the  time  might  come!"  exclaimed  Orsina;  but 
she  checked  herself,  for  she  dreaded  lest  the  wish  she  was 
about  to  express  should  appear  discontented ;  and  she  added, 
"What  a  mysterious  feeling  is  the  love  of  the  country  that 
gave  us  birth — how  unlike  any  other  I  have  ever  experienced. 
To  you,  dear  Lord  Aberford,  wTho  know  the  extent  of  the 
happiness  you  created  for  me,  I  need  not  fear  saying  that 
there  are  times  when  the  recollection  of  Italy  comes  over  me 
writh  a  painful  yearning  to  see  some  favorite  spot,  and  above 
all  to  hear  the  language  I  love.  Quel  dolce  favellar  die  nel 
cor  si  sente.  And  though  I  would  not  change  my  fate  for 
that  of  one  human  being,  there  are  moments  when  these  in- 
voluntary reflections  almost  make  me  melancholy." 

"  Or  when  any  slighting  allusion  to  the  countrymen  with 
wThom  you  are  so  little  acquainted,"  observed  Lord  Aberford, 
"  calls  the  frown  to  that  pretty  brow,  and  the  curl  to  that 
coral  lip,  as  the  other  evening,  when  an  unconscious  guest, 
wTho  had  just  returned  from  Italy,  ventured  his  opinion  on  her 
children,  little  dreaming  that  our  anglicised  Orsini  claimed 
that  relationship." 

Here  the  riders  came  up  at  a  fierce  rate,  and  Orsina  thought 
she  had  never  seen  her  friend  look  so  well. 

Mary  Vernon  sat  and  managed  her  spirited  horse  with  ease 
and  grace :  her  youthful  and  rounded  form  looked  to  great 
advantage  in  a  somewhat  picturesque  riding-dress,  and  her 
long  fair  hair  was  blowing  in  the  wind,  while,  as  they  ap- 
proached the  carriage,  Henry  whispered  something  in  her 
ear  which  brought  an  arch  smile  to  her  lips,  as  they  saluted 
their  friends  in  passing. 

Lady  Isabella  watched  the  riders  out  of  sight,  with  her 
head  full  of  speculations,  while  in  her  mind's  eye  she  already 
beheld  Mary  Vernon  the  bride  of  her  son ;  and  she  shared  the 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  297 

regret  expressed  by  the  whole  party  when  their  pleasant 
journey  came  to  an  end,  and  a  sudden  turn  of  the  road 
brought  them  within  sight  of  Thurston  Hall. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  golden-letter  day  in  Mary  Vernon's 
calendar — one  of  those  sweet  and  chosen  resting-places  for 
memory,  when,  indulging  in  a  retrospective  survey,  she 
voluntarily  hurries  over  the  dull  and  uninteresting  tracts,  to 
repose  on  some  long-cherished  and  pleasant  recollection. 
Who  does  not  possess  at  least  one  or  two  of  these  bright  land- 
marks, where  every  incident,  every  word  and  look,  are  re- 
membered, and  pass  often  in  vivid  review  before  the  mind, 
even  though  long  and  weary  years  may  have  intervened  ? 

Though  unknown,  and  carefully  concealed  from  every 
other  human  being,  Mary  could  no  longer  deceive  her  own 
heart,  or  control  its  sympathies,  which  had  long  since  cen- 
tered on  Henry  Brudenell.  It  is  often  in  characters  such  as 
hers,  that  the  waywardness  of  human  nature  is  apparent ;  for 
the  lesson  she  had  early  imposed  on  her  own  mind  was  self- 
command  ;  and  yet  on  a  subject  of  the  most  importance  to  her 
future  happiness,  she  had  no  power  to  bias  her  affections. 
They  had  spent  much  of  their  early  childhood  together,  and 
during  a  separation  of  several  years,  the  recollection  of  her 
playfellow  was  still  a  pleasing  one  ;  under  the  protection  of 
Lady  Isabella,  she  had  already  spent  two  summers  in  the 
turmoil  of  a  London  campaign,  without  deriving  the  least 
satisfaction  from  any  of  its  "  pleasures."  She  knew  what 
it  was  to  be  courted  and  flattered  on  one  evening  by  the 
same  person,  who  on  the  next  scarcely  remembered,  and  on 
the  third  appeared  unconscious  of  her  existence  ;  and  though 
her  talents  had  been  extolled,  and  her  person  admired,  Mary 
Vernon  still  pursued  her  path  with  her  head  and  heart  un- 
touched. Things  were  in  this  state,  when  Henry  Brudenell 
returned  from  a  prolonged  tour,  and  finding  his  mother  on 
the  eve  of  starting  for  her  country  house,  he  accompanied  her 
thither. 


298  THE  OFFERING  OF  BEAUTY. 

It  was  then  for  the  first  time  that  Mary  had  tasted  the 
luxury  of  being  understood — feelings  and  ideas  which  had 
long  been  hidden  within  her  own  bosom  might  now  be  ex- 
pressed.    The  nature  she  admired,  the  books  she  loved,  were 
equally  appreciated  by  Henry  Brudenell,  whose  opinions  and 
conversation  were  conformable  to  her    own;   and  perfectly 
happy  in  his  society,  it  was  long   ere  she   interrogated  her 
own  heart,  or  received  its  startling  answer ;  but   when  at 
length   she  roused  herself  to  inquire  into  her   feelings,  that 
answer  was  a  trying  one  to  her  proud,  pure  mind.     She  loved, 
and  was  uncertain  whether  that  love  was  met  with  aught  but 
cold  regard.     During  his   absence  she  became  aware  how 
necessary  he  was  to  her  happiness ;  by  comparing  him  with 
others,  she  became  sensible  how  low  every  one  else  stood  in 
her  estimation ;  and  at  times  a  deep  melancholy  would  obscure 
her  mind  as  she  thought  of  the  events  the  future  might  bring 
with  it.     Yet  mistress  of  every  look,  and  every  gesture,  she 
revenged  the  sedition  of  her  inward  feelings  by  the  tyranny 
she  exercised  over  her  outward  conduct,  and  no  one,  how- 
ever well  read  in  the  human  character,  could  have  detected 
one  exterior  sign  of  the   conflict  within.     Even  Orsina,  with 
whom  she  was  on  the  closest  terms  of  intimacy  and  friend- 
ship, believed  that  Mary  regarded  Henry  Brudenell  with  per- 
fect indifference  ;  and  though  some  trifling  circumstance  had 
led  the  young  Italian  to  believe  her  friend's  affections  were 
in  some  measure  engaged,  she  had  not  the  slightest  clue  to 
the  discovery  of  the  real  object. 

This  day, then,  had  been  replete  with  happiness  for  Mary; 
their  ride  had  been  enlivened  by  the  interchange  of  mutual 
ideas;  and  the  mere  fact  of  hearing  his  voice  addressed  solely 
to  her,  and  her  name  so  often  pronounced  by  his  lips,  was  a 
source  of  joy. 

They  remained  a  longer  time  than  they  at  first  intended  at 
Thurston ;  and  on  the  morning  of  their  departure,  Mary  was 
already  calculating  on  the  repetition  of  those  pleasant  hours, 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  299 

when  Henry  Brudenell  himself  informed  her,  that  Orsina  had 
expressed  a  wish  to  try  her  skill  in  horsemanship,  by  riding 
back  to  Aberford.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  divine 
from  the  readiness  with  which  Mary  acceded  to  the  plan,  the 
extent  of  the  sacrifice  she  was  making;  but  she  was  in  a 
great  measure  repaid  by  the  pleasure  she  afforded  Orsina, 
who,  beneath  Henry's  instruction,  showed  no  small  degree 
of  quickness  in  the  management  of  her  horse;  and  they  both 
expressed  themselves  delighted  with  the  ride  as  they  arrived 
at  the  door,  nearly  about  the  same  time  as  the  carriage. 

All  things  passed  on  nearly  in  the  same  train  for  a  week 
after  they  had  been  re-established  in  their  old  quarters,  when 
Lady  Aberford,  returning  from  one  of  her  weekly  visits  of 
charity  to  the  adjoining  village,  overtook  Henry  Brudenell 
sauntering  alone  under  one  of  the  avenues  of  the  park;  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  his  whole  bearing  was 
indicative  of  deep  reflection  ;  nor  was  it  until  his  aunt  placed 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  that  he  became  aware  of  her 
presence. 

"Why,  this  is  quite  unusual,  Harry,"  she  began,  "to  find 
you  indulging  in  solitude!  Has  your  uncle  no  advice  to  ask 
respecting  his  farm? — And  have  both  the  girls  excluded  you 
from  their  ramble  to-day?  If  I  may  judge  from  the  uncom- 
mon seriousness  of  your  countenance,  you  must  have  met 
with  some  vexation  or  annoyance." 

"Oh!  no,"  he  replied  ;  "but  sometimes  it  is  agreeable  and 
soothing  to  be  alone;  and — and " 

"And  yet,"  replied  his  aunt,  "it  strikes  me  that  your 
ideas  on  this  subject  are  lately  changed;  and  I  must  confess 
that  I  am  a  little  curious  to  know  what  can  have  inspired  a 
taste  for  solitude  in  the  breast  of  Henry  Brudenell." 

She  placed  her  arm  within  his,  and  awaited  his  answer  for 
some  time :  then  added,  more  seriously — 

"  There  was  a  time,  Harry,  when  you  used  to  call  me 
your  friend,  and  would  often  Hatter  me,  by  saying  you  hid 


300  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

no  secrets  from  me.  Do  you  think  I  am  growing  too  old  to 
participate  any  longer  in  your  feelings,  or  has  any  circum- 
stance induced  you  to  withdraw  a  confidence  I  was  both 
proud  and  happy  to  possess?" 

"Oh!  no,  my  dearest  aunt,"  he  replied,  eagerly,  "nothing 
has — nothing  can  ever  diminish  my  gratitude — my  affection 
for  you :  but  the  human  heart  is  so  wayward,  and  mine  in 
particular,  that  there  are  times  when  it  refuses  to  seek  refuge 
where  once  it  loved  to  shelter — when  a  thousand  contending 
feelings  rise  up  and  obstruct  the  path  to  confidence,  till,  driven 
back  upon  themselves,  they  oppress  the  mind  doubly." 

"Do  not,  Henry,"  said  Lady  Aberford,  "speak  so  seriously 
and  so  mysteriously.  I  am  used  to  hear  your  voice  pitched 
in  a  tone  of  cheerfulness,  and  can  hardly  recognize  it  now. 
I  would  not  for  worlds  seek  or  claim  a  confidence  you  with- 
hold; but  my  affection  authorizes  one  question: — Is  the  me- 
lancholy by  which  you  are  influenced  a  passing  cloud,  or  are 
you  unhappy?" 

Henry  looked  up  with  an  expression  that  was  new  to  him. 

"  I  am  wretched!"  he  exclaimed,  "  most  wretched  !" 

"  And  why,  my  dearest  Henry,  are  you  wretched,  with 
everything  to  make  you  happy?" 

"Why!"  he  replied.  "Why  —  because  a  change  has 
come  over  me — because  my  freedom  of  spirit  is  gone — be- 
cause I  am  become  a  slave  to  feelings  I  once  contemned." 
He  paused  and  sighed,  and  yet,  as  he  did  so,  Lady  Aberford 
could  not  suppress  a  smile. 

"  Forgive  me,  Harry,"  she  said,  "  if  I  triumph  a  little  in 
the  completion  of  my  own  secret  prophecy — if  I  rejoice  in 
the  success  of  an  ally — or  slightly  exult  at  the  conquest  of 
one  who  believed  the  armor  of  opinions  and  fancies  manu- 
factured by  himself  to  be  impregnable. — Throw  yourself  at 
the  feet  of  your  fair  victor,  Harry ;  surrender  your  heart  at 
discretion,  and  hear  your  doom  from  her  lips: — this  is  the 
best  advice  I  can  offer  in  a  situation  of  such  difficulty." 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  301 

Again  Henry  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met  those  of  the 
speaker;  but  the  expression  was  far  different — doubt,  hesi- 
tation, and  a  kind  of  fearful  joy  seemed  written  on  his  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Explain  yourself,"  he  said  ;  "  I  scarcely  know  what  you 
are  saying,  or  what  I  am  listening  to." 

"  To  speak  more  seriously,  then,  as  you  will  not  allow  me 
to  jest,  I  will  ask  if  you  suppose  me  blind  to  the  gradual 
change  that  has  shown  itself  in  a  thousand  trifles,  which 
could  not  pass  unobserved  by  one  who  loves  you  as  I  do. 
What  is  it  that  has  given  a  soul  to  the  singing  that  was  ad- 
mired hitherto  more  for  science  than  feeling  ?  What  has  so 
often  induced  you  to  relinquish  the  field-sports  you  used  to 
love — and  what,  Harry,  when  you  repeated  those  favorite 
lines  of  ours  the  other  morning,  what  made  your  voice  falter, 
and  caused  the  deep  sigh  as  you  concluded  ?  And  why, 
above  all,  should  you  blush  to  own  such  a  feeling — why 
should  some  strange  sophistry  prevent  you  from  securing 
your  own  happiness,  and  that  of  a  young  and  amiable  crea- 
ture ?" 

Henry  Brudenell  again  stopped,  and  his  agitation  was  ap- 
parent and  distressing. 

"Great  God!"  he  said,  "is  it  possible?  You — whose 
displeasure  I  feared  more  than  that  of  my  own  mother — is  it 
possible  you  have  discovered  my  secret?  and  that  instead  of 
your  anger — your  contempt,  I  have  your  blessing  and  pro- 
tection! Yes,  my  dearest  aunt — my  friend — my  mother — I 
do  love  her!  Love  her  as  no  words  of  mine  can  convey  to 
your  mind!  Love  her — as  she  ought  to  be  loved — with  heart 
and  soul!  Every  thought,  every  hope,  every  wish  is  hers, 
and  hers  only;  and  the  desire  of  possessing  her  would  have 
made  me  brave  the  opinion  of  the  whole  world !  But  yours, 
my  dear,  dear  aunt — you,  who  have  ever  been  kind  and 
affectionate  to  me  under  every  circumstance,  and  who  have 
now  opened  a  prospect  of  happiness  I  but  yesterday  believed 
26 


302  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

beyond  my  reach." He  paused  for  one  moment — he  was 

breathless,  and  then  added:— "You  will  be  my  friend  on 
this  as  on  every  other  occasion — you  will  make  my  peace 
with  my  mother,  with  Lord  Aberford,  and  even  should  you 
not  succeed,  your  blessing  will  be  sufficient  for  us!" 

"Your  vehemence  overpowers — almost  alarms  me.  Henry, 
why  should  you  have  believed  all  this  impossible?  What 
objection  could  any  one  raise  to  your  marriage  with  Mary 
Vernon?" 

"  Mary  Vernon!"  echoed  Henry,  in  a  loud  but  tremulous 
voice.     "Good  God,  I  was  speaking  of  Ormial" 

As  one  who  hears  the  sentence  of  death  passed  on  him, 
so  stood  Lady  Aberford  in  speechless  consternation,  as  her 
nephew  uttered  the  words  that  betrayed  the  error  under 
which  they  were  mutually  laboring :  she  leaned  against  a 
tree  for  support,  for  the  earth  seemed  trembling  beneath  her. 
"Good  Heavens!"  she  at  last  exclaimed,  "and  this  is  my 
doing!  my  fatal  blindness  has  brought  this  misfortune  on  us 
all — the  blame  is  mine,  and  mine  only !  Tell  me,  Henry,  I 
charge  you,  does  Orsina  know  you  love  her — does  she  return 
your  misguided  affection  ?  Have  I  her  misery  as  well  as 
yours  to  answer  for?" 

No,  Henry  had  never  breathed  his  love  ;  but  he  hoped — 
he  feared— he  believed— that  Orsina  must  have  guessed  the 
sentiments  with  which  she  inspired  him:  and  unwilling 
utterly  to  lose  the  confidence  so  newly  inspired  by  his  aunt's 
previous  manner,  he  was  proceeding  in  an  impassioned  ap- 
peal to  her  pity  and  generosity,  when  she  stopped  him. 

"Henry,  Henry, — do  not  speak  to  me  any  further  now!" 
exclaimed  she ;  "  you  can  hardly  conceive  the  state  of  my 
mind  at  this  moment.  Forgive  me  if  I  leave  you — do  not 
believe  me  incapable  of  compassion  for  you  ;  but  until  I  am 
calmer — until  I  have  in  some  measure  recovered  myself  and 
have  had  time  for  thought — I  cannot  continue  this  painful 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  303 

conversation.  Alas!  how  little  did  I  foresee  the  arrival  of 
that  unfortunate  girl  would  bring  such  misery  on  us  all!" 

They  had  by  this  time  arrived  at  the  house,  and  they  sepa- 
rated in  silence ;  having  each  a  part  to  play  in  society,  they 
mutually  feared  lest  one  word  more  should  entirely  destroy 
their  small  stock  of  self-possession. 

They  met  at  dinner.  Lady  Aberford  exerted  herself  to 
the  utmost ;  and  with  a  false  flow  of  spirits,  she  laughed  and 
jested  even  more  than  usual;  but  with  Henry  the  case  was 
far  different — fully  conscious  that  he  did  not  possess  suffi- 
cient command  over  his  feelings  to  follow  her  example,  he 
was  obliged  to  shield  himself  under  the  plea  of  indisposition, 
which  formed  an  excuse  for  his  retiring  before  any  of  the 
family . 

Mary  Vernon  was  the  last  who  bade  Lord  Aberford  good 
night :  and  even  she  retired  to  her  own  room  with  a  sensation 
of  anxiety  she  could  hardly  account  for.  There  she  sat, 
musing  for  some  time  by  the  fireside,  with  a  thousand  specu- 
lations, such  as  will  force  their  way  into  the  minds  of  a  young 
ana  imaginative  being,  when  the  past,  the  present,  and  the 
future,  pass  in  rapid  succession  before  the  mental  eye,  with 
their  train  of  associations,  and  their  host  of  real  or  imaginary 
pleasures, — when  she  was  startled  by  a  low  knock  at  the 
door.  She  bade  the  visitor  enter — at  a  loss  to  imagine  who 
could  ask  admittance  at  so  late  an  hour;  and  was  not  a  little 
alarmed  at  perceiving  Orsina,  who,  pale  and  agitated,  threw 
herself  on  the  sofa  beside  her. 

"What  has  happened?"  exclaimed  Miss  Vernon  ;  "my 
dear  Orsina — what  is  the  matter?" 

"I  am  come,"  replied  the  other,  hurriedly,  "to  you  for 
consolation  and  advice,  to  see  if  you  will  stand  my  friend, 
as  you  have  so  often  promised  me,  in  my  hour  of  distress, 
Mary!  I  have  forfeited  the  esteem  and  affection  of  Lady 
Aberford." 

"My  poor  Orsina,"  interrupted  her  companion,  "what 


304  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

can  you  mean,  what  trivial  fault  have  you  committed,  that 
your  conscientiousness  has  magnified  into  a  crime?" 

"Oh!  Mary,  did  you  not  observe  all  this  evening  that 
something  preyed  on  Lady  Aberford's  mind  ?  I  did  clearly, 
though  she  fancied  she  concealed  it.  When  she  went  up 
stairs  she  called  me  into  her  room,  and,  taking  hold  of  both 
my  hands,  fixed  her  eyes  on  my  face,  as  if  she  would  have 
read  all  my  thoughts,  and  then  she  said  so  seriously  to  me, 
'  Orsina,  are  you  afraid  of  looking  at  me?'  And  at  first  I 
did  not  know  what  she  meant,  for  I  always  loved  to  look  at 
her;  but  she  repeated  the  question,  and  then,  Mary,  I  did 
fear  to  look  at  her,  as  she  said,  'Orsina,  answer  me!  Is 
there  at  this  moment  a  secret  you  would  not  dare  to  tell  me?' 
I  never  heard  her  speak  so  before,  and  I  turned  away  my 
face,  for  I  felt  the  blood  rushing  into  my  cheeks ;  but  she  still 
held  my  hands,  and  repeated  my  name,  '  Orsina  Brandini, 
answer  me!'  I  could  not  answer  her;  and  no  sooner  did 
she  let  my  hands  go,  than  I  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  left 
her.  Oh!  Mary,  how  miserable  I  am!  I  have  been  un- 
happy before,  but  till  now,  I  have  had  nothing  to  reproach 

myself  with and  yet,"  she  added,  eagerly,  "  what  crime 

can  there  be  in  the  pure  unselfish  love  of  my  heart  ?  and  if 
there  is,  at  least  they  are  to  blame,  and  not  I.  Who  could 
live  for  so  many  months  under  the  same  roof,  with  every 
occupation,  every  thought  in  common,  and  not  love  him? 
You,  yourself,  Mary,  had  not  your  affections  been  already 
engaged,  do  you  believe  it  possible  you  could  have  remained 
insensible  to  the  magic  of  his  presence?" 

"  Orsina,"  said  Miss  Vernon,  as  she  placed  her  trembling 
hand  on  the  head  of  her  friend,  who  half  kneeled  beside  her, 
"does  he  love  you?"  She  fixed  her  eyes  intently  on  Orsina, 
who  replied  eagerly — 

"  If  there  be  truth  in  look  and  language,  in  silence,  he 
loves  me ;  and  yet  it  is  terrible  to  think  that  he  does.  Me ! — 
an  orphan,  a  beggar,  an  outcast,  existing  on  the  charity  of 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  305 

his  family.  Think  of  his  mother,  of  Lord  Aberford,  who 
would  spurn  me  from  their  door!  Will  you  comfort  me, 
.Mary?  I  never  knew  what  it  was  till  now  to  shrink  before 
any  one's  gaze,  and  I  have  done  so  twice  to-night." 

Mary  Vernon  clasped  her  hands  together,  her  lip  quivered, 
but  her  voice  was  audible  ;  and  as  she  took  on  herself  the 
office  of  comforter,  her  manner  became  gradually  calmer. 
She  made  use  of  every  argument  that  the  most  disinterested 
friendship  could  suggest,  to  pacify  the  poor  girl.  She  dried 
her  falling  tears  with  her  own  hand,  and  then  supported  her 
to  her  own  room,  and  sat  by  her  side  until  Orsina,  exhausted 
by  a  grief  that  was  so  new  to  her,  fell  into  a  child-like 
slumber.  It  was  on  her  return  to  her  apartment,  that  Mary 
had  leisure  to  comprehend  the  extent  of  her  own  grief;  em- 
bittered by  the  knowledge  it  was  caused  by  the  two  beings 
she  loved  best  in  the  world ;  she  passed  her  hands  before  her 
eyes;  but  the  dream  could  not  be  dispelled.  Suddenly  she 
threw  herself  on  her  knees,  and  poured  forth  the  overflowings 
of  her  wounded  heart  to  God.  Long  and  earnestly  did  the 
poor  sufferer  pray  for  comfort,  for  support,  under  the  trials 
she  was  called  upon  to  endure,  and  for  strength  to  conceal 
them  from  the  sight  of  man  ;  nor  did  she  pray  in  vain,  but 
rose  from  her  knees  refreshed  by  the  soothing  influence  of 
prayer. 

It  was  late  the  next  morning  before  she  went  into  Orsina's 
room,  who  had  not  long  risen,  to  remind  her  that  it  was  the 
day  on  which  she  was  to  try  the  new  horse  Lord  Aberford 
had  given  her.  As  she  expected,  Orsina  was  incapable  of 
the  exertion,  and  Mary,  therefore,  determined  on  remaining 
at  home,  instead  of  riding  with  Lord  Aberford  and  his  nephew, 
as  had  been  proposed. 

Orsina  would  not  hear  of  this  plan,  and  assured  her  friend 
that  perfect  solitude,  at  such  a  moment,  would  be  preferable 
even  to  her  much-loved  society.  From  the  window  she 
watched  the  departure  of  the  whole  party,  with  no  small 

26* 


306  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

degree  of  satisfaction,  and  then  sat  down  to  reflect  upon  her 
situation ;  though,  as  she  did  so,  the  difficulties  by  which  she 
was  surrounded  appeared  more  and  more  insurmountable. 
Bitterly  now  did  she  repent  the  abruptness  which  must  have 
both  offended  Lady  Aberford,  and  left  an  impression  on  her 
mind  it  wTould  now  be  difficult  to  remove. 

How  much  better,  had  she  answered  the  question  with 
openness,  and  pleaded  guilty  to  the  feeling,  with  the  assur- 
ance that  no  conversation  had  ever  passed  between  herself 
and  Henry.  Poor  Orsina!  she  upbraided  herself  in  vain  for 
the  only  occasion  on  which  she  had  evinced  a  want  of  can- 
dor; but  it  was  too  late,  and  she  trembled  at  the  thoughts  of 
meeting  her  benefactress,  and  the  ordeal  of  scrutiny  her  de- 
portment towards  Henry  must  undergo — till,  lost  in  a  maze 
of  doubt  and  fear,  and  bewildered  by  her  own  reflections,  she 
burst  into  an  agony  of  tears,  and  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands,  remained  in  this  position  for  some  time,  till  her  atten- 
tion was  attracted  by  the  uncommon  sounds  of  music.  After 
listening  a  few  moments,  she  threw  up  the  window,  and 
distinctly  heard  the  notes  of  a  hand  organ  proceeding  from 
the  court-yard  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Orsina  loved  music 
in  its  lowliest  character ;  but  an  organ  was  associated  with 
early  recollections  in  her  mind,  nor  could  she  withstand  the 
temptation  of  going  down  to  the  spot. 

She  made  her  way  hastily,  by  a  back  path  in  the  garden, 
to  a  small  gate  that  communicated  with  the  stables ;  here 
she  found  a  boy  standing  with  his  organ  and  a  monkey,  who 
respectfully  doffed  his  cap  on  Orsina's  arrival.  The  boy 
was  a  pretty  black-eyed  little  fellow,  whose  whole  appearance 
bespoke  his  nation,  and  she  accosted  him  in  Italian.  He  was 
leaning  against  the  wall,  with  a  dejected  countenance,  ap- 
parently much  fatigued ;  but  no  sooner  did  he  hear  himself 
addressed  in  his  own  language,  than  he  broke  forth  in  a 
strain  of  natural  eloquence,  and  overpowered  her  with  his 
expressions  of  delight  and  gratitude :  then  hastily  rehearsing 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  307 

the  list  of  his  organ  tunes,  he  bade  her  choose  her  favorite, 
which  he  sang  in  a  sweet,  though  untutored  voice. 

Orsina  leaned  against  the  iron  gate,  and  drank  in  every 
sound;  it  was  a  tune  that  had  been  familiar  to  her  from  her 
infancy— to  which  she  had  often  danced  of  a  summer's  even- 
ing  on  their  little  terrace,  accompanied    by  her   mother's 
voice— moreover,  it  was  the  first  song  she  had  attempted  to 
learn  under  that  mother's  tuition ;  and  as  the  little  musician 
sang  it  in  his  native  style,  recollections  that  had  long  lain 
dormant  were  awakened  in  her  breast:  thoughts  of  her  be- 
loved parent,  of  her  own  sunny  Italy,  of  a  thousand  nameless 
links  which  bind  us  to  the  land  of  our  birth,  again  called  forth 
the  tears  into  her  eyes,  and  they  chased  each  other  rapidly 
down  her  cheeks,  while  the  boy,  not  in  the  least  surprised  at 
the  effect  his  vocal  powers  had  on  his  countrywoman,  only 
continued  the  song  with  redoubled  energy.    So  absorbed  was 
Orsina  by  her  own  thoughts,  that  the  clattering  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  in  the  yard  did  not  rouse  her  from  her  reverie,  until 
Henry  Brudenell  stood  before  her.     She  started  as  she  saw 
him,  and  her  cheeks  and  temples  flushed  crimson,  when, 
hastily  putting  a  piece  of  money  into  the  musician's  hand, 
she  interrupted  him  in  the  middle  of  a  verse,  to  his  evident 
mortification,  by  remarking  that  it  was  too  cold  to  remain 
still  any  longer,  and  turned  away ;  but  Henry  opened  the 
gate  hastily,  and  overtook  her  long  before  she  could  reach 
the  house. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  began,  with  a  smile,  "  that  I  was  so 
indiscreet  as  to  interrupt  your  tete-a-tete  with  your  little 
countryman;  but  am,  nevertheless,  glad  to  see  you  out,  as 
Miss  Vernon  told  us  you  were  unwell,  and  this  does  not  look 
like  it,  to  be  walking  in  such  a  summer  costume  in  the  month 
of  November." 

Orsina  murmured  something  like  an  explanation,  which 
was  none,  and  only  quickened  her  pace.  Henry  was  silent 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  hesitatingly, 


308  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  have  offended  you  in  some  manner ; 
for  this  is  the  first  time,  since  we  have  been  acquainted,  that 
you  have  both  avoided  me  and  my  conversation." 

Orsina  turned  her  face  towards  him,  for  she  could  not 
speak,  and  he  then  observed  the  traces  of  recent  tears. 

"  Indeed,"  he  said,  "  you  do  look  unwell,  and  what  is 
more,  you  look  unhappy — I  hope  I  may  be  mistaken ;  but  I 
am  so  familiar  with  unhappiness  myself,  that  I  can  but  too 
easily  perceive  it  in  others :  you  may  think  me  impertinent 
and  intrusive,  and  I  will  run  the  risk  of  appearing  both ;  but 
let  me  entreat  you  to  listen  to  me  for  a  few  moments — do  not 
refuse  me,"  he  added,  gently  taking  her  hand,  which  she 
disengaged  with  the  same  degree  of  gentleness. 

"What  you  have  to  say,  Mr.  Brudenell,"  she  at  last 
exclaimed,  without  turning  towards  him,  "  must  be  short, 
because  Lady  Aberford  might  be  displeased  at  finding  me 
absent." 

Her  manner,  generally  so  playful  and  unconstrained,  was 
now  so  completely  altered,  that  Henry  was  confirmed  in  his 
suspicion  of  something  having  passed  between  her  and  his 
aunt,  and  he  exclaimed  eagerly—"  I  hardly  know  to  what  I 
can  attribute  the  change  of  your  manner  towards  me,  as  I  am 
certain  of  having  given  you  no  cause  of  offence,  unless,  in- 
deed, Lady  Aberford  should  have  betrayed  my  confidence, 
and  accused  me  of  a  fault,  which  you,  at  least,  might  be  the 
first  to  forgive." 

He  turned  the  full  light  of  his  eyes  on  Orsina's  shrinking 
countenance,  and  read  there,  in  characters  too  legible  to  be 
mistaken,  what  she  would  have  given  worlds  to  conceal. 

"Tell  me,"  he  cried,  "what  did  Lady  Aberford  say  to 
you?  Did  she  tell  you,  Orsina,  that  I  love  you,  or  did  she 
probe  your  heart  as  she  did  mine,  and  were  their  answers  the 

same  ?" 

"Oh,"  replied  the  trembling  girl,  "she  told  me  nothing- 
nothing  ;  but  my  own  heart  tells  me,  I  am  the  most  wretched, 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  399 

the  most  ungrateful  of  beings.  Do  not  detain  me  any  longer 
—I  have  already  done  wrong  in  listening  so  far— I  have 
already  proved  myself  unworthy  of  every  act  of  kindness 
that  has  been  heaped  upon  me.— But,  hark!  I  hear  footsteps; 
for  mercy's  sake,  Mr.  Brudenell,  do  not  be  found  here!" 

"If  you  command  me,"  he  replied,  "I  go;  but  remember, 
it  would  be  my  wish  to  stand  by  you  in  the  sight  of  the 
world!" 

She  waved  her  hand  in  an  agony  of  fear,  and  he,  turning 
short  down  another  path,  was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment,  when, 
to  Orsina's  consternation,  Lady  Isabella  turned  the  corner, 
and  stood  exactly  before  her— one  look  sufficed  to  warn  her 
of  the  storm  that  instantly  broke  forth  in  all  its  violence. 
She  acquainted  Orsina  that  her  ruse  for  remaining  at  home 
was  ill-conceived,  and  worse  executed,  and  that  Henry's 
swift  return  was  not  calculated  to  lull  a  suspicion  which  she 
had  entertained  for  several  days  past.     "Mary,"  she  said, 
"  is  gone  to  your  room,  not  knowing  you  were  sufficiently  re- 
covered to  be  walking  in  the  shrubbery  in  such  a  picturesque 
costume;  but  I  know  you  better  than  either  she  or  my  sister, 
and  your  gentle  conciliating  manners  cannot,  at  least,  deceive 
me."     Then  changing  her  tone,  with  a  degree  of  low  art  not 
always  foreign  to  the  haughty  and  the  violent,  she  took  upon 
herself  to  warn  Orsina  of  the  perilous  situation  in  which  she 
stood,  with  ill-disguised  malice  and  crafty  insinuations,  highly 
derogatory  to  the  intentions  of  her  son. 

Still  Orsina  listened  in  imperturbable  silence  ;  and,  with 
her  lips  compressed,  showed  a  fixed  determination  not  to 
reply.  Enraged  beyond  measure  at  such  forbearance,  Lady 
Isabella  recapitulated  the  exalted  situation  and  brilliant  pros- 
pects of  her  son,  and  placing  them  in  array  against  those  of 
Orsina,  painted  the  contrast  in  glowing  colors,  nor  did  she 
scorn  to  upbraid  her  victim  with  her  profession,  her  poverty 
and  dependence,  and  then,  keeping  the  poisoned  arrow  the 
last  in  the  quiver,  she  taunted  her  with  the  stain  on  her  birth 


310  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

and  spoke  in  words  of  opprobrium  of  that  mother,  whose 
memory,  at  least,  wTas  hallowed  to  a  child  that  had  only 
known  her  virtues. 

The  whole  energy  of  Orsina's  character  and  nation  was 
roused  into  action,  as  this  inhuman  speech  was  concluded. 
"  What  you  think,  or  what  you  say  of  me,  Lady  Isabella 
Brudenell,"  she  exclaimed,  while  her  lip  curled,  and  her  full 
bright  eye  flashed,  as  she  spoke,  "  are  alike  indifferent  to 
me,  and  if  you  think  proper  to  asperse  the  character  of  your 
noble  and  excellent  son,  you  are,  of  course,  at  liberty  to  do 
so;  but  while  I  live,  no  one  shall  breathe  a  word  in  my  pre- 
sence against  that  beloved  mother,  who,  God  is  my  witness, 
I  judge  as  worthy  of  love  and  honor,  as  I  do  you  of  pity  and 
contempt!" 

Totally  unprepared  for  such  a  burst  of  indignation,  Lady 
Isabella  paused  for  several  moments,  thunderstruck  at  the 
violence  of  Orsina's  language  and  manner ;  but  feeling  that 
the  moment  was  a  critical  one,  and  that  should  she  be  allowed 
to  pass  unanswered,  her  own  power  would  for  ever  be  anni- 
hilated, she  again  gave  vent  to  her  fearful  and  unbridled 
passion.  Threats  and  menaces,  coupled  with  the  names  of 
her  brother  and  sister-in-law,  were  uttered  in  so  loud  a  voice, 
that  Lord  Aberford  himself  was  attracted  to  the  spot. 

A  few  words  enlightened  him  on  the  subject,  and  he  inter- 
rupted the  speaker  in  a  tone  of  authority,  that  was  as  novel 
to  her  as  the  last  speech  she  listened  to. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Lady  Isabella,"  he  said;  "my  doors 
were  opened  to  Mademoiselle  Brandini  in  misfortune,  and  it 
is  not  likely  that  they  should  now  be  closed  upon  her  for  the 
same  reason." 

Then,  without  awaiting  her  answer,  he  stepped  forward, 
and  taking  Orsina's  hand,  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  led 
her  to  the  house.  They  did  not  exchange  a  word,  but  there 
was  something  in  Lord  Aberford's  whole  deportment  that 
inspired  her  with  courage,  and  promised  her  protection.     He 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  3H 

opened  the  garden  door  of  his  little  study,  where,  after  mak- 
ing her  sit  down,  he  drew  a  chair  beside  her. 

"Believe  me,"  he  began,  "I  am  sorry  that  anyone  of  my 
family  should  have  wounded  your  feelings  so  acutely;  but 
forgive  me,  if  I  say,  that  a  little  more  reliance  on  myself  or 
Lady  Aberford,  would  have  spared  you  a  great  share  of  what 
you  have  undergone." 

Orsina  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  but  the  recollection 
of  what  had  passed  between  her  and  Lady  Aberford,  and  the 
dread   of  the   conclusion  that  might   be   drawn  from  Lady 
Isabella's  violence,   gave  her  courage,   and  with   as   much 
composure  as  she   could   command,  did  she  undertake  the 
difficult  task  of  exculpating  herself,  by  laying  the  true  state 
of  the  case  before  Lord  Aberford,  and  then  added,  in  a  sor- 
rowful tone :— « My  short   life   has  been  replete  with   grief 
and  hardship— one  parent  deserted  me,  and  the  other  was 
taken  from  me  before   my  mind  was  strengthened,  or  my 
character    sufficiently  formed,  to   encounter  the  dangers  of 
life;  yet,  by  the  help  of  God,  I  struggled  with  my  triafs  until 
you  rescued  me  from  my  terrible  situation;  but  %  change 
from  misery  to  happiness  was  not  calculated  to  check  the 
impetuosity  of  my  disposition.     In  my  folly  I  believed  it  im- 
possible ever  to  be  unhappy  again— a  few  days  only  have 
opened  my  eyes;  but  if  you  could  understand  the  depth  and 
violence  of  my  feelings,  you  would  pity  and  forgive  my  inca- 
pacity to  subdue  them." 

"I  do,  Orsina,"  said  Lord  Aberford,  tenderly;  "I  know 
how  difficult  it  is  to  call  up  the  most  secret  feelings  of  the 
heart,  and  to  clothe  them  in  words;  and  though  I  will  not 
deny  that  my  wife  was  wounded  by  your  manner,  I  have  no 
doubt  that,  when  I  repeat  what  has  passed  between  us  on 
the  subject,  she  will  receive  you  as  before:  yet  you  must  be 
sensible,  my  poor  child,  of  the  impossibility  of  my  furthering 
your  happiness  in  any  other  way  ;  for  my  duty  as  Henry's 
guardian  and  uncle  is  imperative."     He  bent  over  the  chair, 


312  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

and  took  her  hand.  "  Orsina,"  he  said,  "  while  I  live,  con- 
sider me  as  your  father;  it  did  not  please  the  Almighty  to 
bless  me — "  he  paused,  sighed  deeply,  and  then  continued: 
— "You  will  be  our  child  ;  we  will  do  all  in  our  power  to 
cheer  you,  under  a  separation  which  I  fear  will  be  painful." 
He  rose  from  his  seat,  again  pressed  her  hand  affection- 
ately, and  left  the  room. 

***** 

The  different  parties  met  at  dinner  with  conflicting  feelings. 
Orsina  was  not  present,  but  Lord  Aberford,  justly  incensed 
at  the  conduct  of  his  sister,  although  ignorant  of  half  of  its 
baseness,  seldom  opened  his  lips;  while  Lady  Isabella  sat 
in  moody  silence.  Henry  Brudenell,  aware  of  the  meeting 
between  his  mother  and  Orsina,  was  in  an  agony  to  know 
what  had  passed.  His  interview  with  the  latter  had  not  been 
so  explanatory  as  he  intended;  and  yet,  under  all  these  dis- 
tressing circumstances,  the  certainty  of  being  loved  made 
him  feel  comparatively  happy.  Immediately  after  dinner 
Lady  Isabella  retired,  and  Mary  stole  to  Orsina,  leaving 
Henry  Brudenell  with  Lord  and  Lady  Aberford. 

But  on  coming  down  stairs  about  two  hours  afterwards, 
she  found  him  alone  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  some  time  for  you,  my  dear  Miss 
Vernon,"  he  said,  "to  tell  you  I  leave  Aberford  to-night.  I 
was  in  hopes  not  to  have  done  so  without  seeing  her,  but  on 
reflection  have  consented  to  do  so.  I  know  you  will  not  re- 
fuse to  carry  a  message  from  me — it  is  this:  that  though  I 
am  compelled  to  be  absent  for  a  year,  nothing  but  death  will 
prevent  my  returning  at  the  expiration  of  that  time,  with  my 
heart  as  devoted,  and  my  determination  as  unalterably  fixed 
to  marry  her,  as  soon  as  the  law  makes  me  my  own  master. 
I  know  you  will  repeat  these  very  words.  God  bless  you 
both.  I  leave  her  to  your  care ;  she  will  not  be  less  dear  to 
you,  because  she  is  so  to  your  brother's  friend." 


ORSINA    DRAND1NI.  313 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  pressed  that  of  Mary,  little 
dreaming  how  her  heart  thrilled  within  her  as  he  did  so. 

"You  will  also  acquaint  my  mother  of  my  departure,  as  I 
shall  not  see  her.     God  bless  you,  dear  Mary!" 

He  turned,  and  plucking  ofFa  beautiful  rosebud  from  a  small 
tree  in  the  window,  held  it  out  to  her.  Mary  received  the  flower 
in  silence;  she  knew  for  whom  it  was  intended,  and  in  a  few 
broken  accents  promised  it  should  be  conveyed ;  then  feeling 
she  could  no  longer  conceal  her  emotion,  she  left  the  room. 

After  all  that  had  passed,  it  could  not  be  expected  that 
Lady  Isabella  would  remain  longer  than  was  necessary 
under  the  same  roof  with  Orsina;  and  in  consequence,  the 
next  day  she  announced  her  intention  of  going  to  the  sea- 
side for  change  of  air,  and  to  the  despair  of  poor  Mary,  they 
accordingly  left  Aberford  a  few  days  after  the  departure  of 
Henry.  As  to  Orsina,  her  sorrow  was  so  poignant,  so  en- 
grossing, that  everything  else  gave  wTay  before  it ;  and  the 
absence  of  her  friend,  though  sincerely  regretted,  was  not  so 
deeply  mourned  as  it  would  have  been  at  any  other  time. 

Nevertheless,  Mary  Vernon's  letters,  the  breathings  of  a 
beautiful  mind,  were  a  source  of  real  comfort  to  Orsina, 
though  she  felt  startled  at  times,  by  the  depth  of  melancholy 
which  pervaded  them;  and  not  a  little  uneasy,  as  Mary  oc- 
casionally spoke  of  the  declining  state  of  her  own  health. 

%  -i  *  *  :;; 

In  such  a  manner  passed  the  spring,  and  the  early  part  of 
the  summer,  when  a  circumstance  took  place,  apparently 
trifling,  but  in  truth  of  no  small  importance  to  the  Brandings 
future  life.  It  happened  that  Lord  Aberford,  in  addition  to 
the  improvements  he  was  always  planning  in  the  grounds, 
had  some  new  scheme  for  the  alteration  of  the  right  wing  of 
the  building.  This  led  him  one  morning  into  that  part  of 
the  house  where  Orsina's  apartments  were  situated.  The 
weather  was  hot,  and  she  had  opened  her  door  to  enjoy  the 
iir-  and  before  Lord  Aberford  could  come  up  (o  it,  he  was 
27 


314  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

attracted  by  her  singing.  He  entered  with  a  smile  and  slight 
apology,  and  was  about  to  comment  on  the  words  of  her 
song,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  small  picture  which  hung 
exactly  opposite  to  him — it  was  that  of  a  beautiful  woman, 
whose  commanding  features,  jet  black  hair,  and  glowing  skin, 
bespoke  her  the  native  of  a  southern  clime.  Making  but  one 
stride  from  the  door,  Lord  Aberford  stood  before  it,  regard- 
less of  the  astonishment  of  Orsina ;  then  turning  to  her  with 
every  sign  of  emotion,  he  demanded,  in  a  hurried  tone,  by 
what  right  she  possessed  that  picture — and  scarcely  awaiting 
her  answer,  snatched  it  from  the  peg,  and  examined  the 
back  of  the  frame,  where  the  name  of  Camilla  was  inscribed. 

"It  is  my  poor  mother's  portrait,  my  lord,"  said  Orsina 
timidly. 

"Your  mother?    Camilla  your  mother!"  exclaimed  he. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  alarmed  by  his  vehemence.  "She 
gave  it  me  on  her  death-bed."  Then  drawing  a  small  medal- 
lion from  her  bosom,  she  held  it  out  to  him — "  and  this 
contains  the  hair  of  both  my  parents,  and  was  given  me  by 
my  father." 

Lord  Aberford  seized  it  with  an  eagerness  almost  amount- 
ing to  violence,  and  looked  at  it  earnestly,  till  large  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes. 

"Orsina!"  he  at  last  exclaimed — "come  nearer;  you 
need  not  shrink  from  the  embrace  of  a  father"  He  folded 
her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed,  and  blessed  her  repeatedly; 
then,  after  a  pause,  he  said — 

"  I  knew  I  had  been  deceived,  but  not  so  cruelly.  And 
oh!  I  fear  to  inquire  into  what  crimes  my  credulity  led  me: 
they  told  me  you  were  dead,  my  child,  when  they  told  me 
she  was  untrue,  and  one  might  be  as  false  as  the  other.  Did 
she  curse  me,  Orsina?  did  she  curse  your  father  on  her  death- 
bed?" 

"Her  last  words,"  replied  Orsina,  scarcely  able  to  articu- 
late for  the  sobs  that  almost  choked  her,  "  were  blessings  on 


ORSINA    BRANDINI.  315 

my  father,  and  pardon  for  his  want  of  faith  in  her  unaltera- 
ble affection;  and  pardon  for  the  villain  who  deceived  them 
both — for  that  villain,  to  elude  whose  pursuit  she  was  obliged 
(when  abandoned  by  all  she  loved)  to  change  her  name  and 
abode,  and  trust  to  her  own  talents  for  a  scanty  mainte- 
nance." 

"Merciful  God!"  said  Lord  Aberford,  "later  occurrences 
have  combined  to  make  me  suspect  some  foul  play;  but  I 
could  not  believe  it  so  dark  as  this.  And  can  you,  Orsina, 
forgive  a  father  who  loved  you  as  one,  before  he  knew  the 
sacred  tie  that  unites  us?" 

Orsina's  tears  were  her  only  reply,  and  Lord  Aberford, 
after  replacing  the  miniature,  left  the  room.  After  some 
time  spent  by  the  Brandini  in  a  stupor  which  precluded 
reflection,  he  returned,  leading  in  his  wife.  She  had  been 
weeping,  but  her  manner  was  perfectly  collected,  as  she 
walked  up  to  Orsina,  and  embracing  her  tenderly,  said  in  a 
low  voice, 

"  My  own  dear  child!   he  has  told  me  all!" 

***** 

One  long  and  interesting  conversation  passed  between  the 
father  and  his  new-found  child,  which  was  not  calculated 
to  yield  him  any  consolation  on  the  score  of  that  beautiful 
and  unfortunate  creature  whose  fidelity  he  could  no  longer 
doubt.  He  was  also  soon  too  well  convinced  of  the  fact,  that 
the  money  annually  remitted  to  her  account,  had  never  pass- 
ed from  the  hands  of  that  "  Friend"  in  whom  he  had  placed 
so  blind  and  misguided  a  confidence.  In  possession  of  the 
small  stock  of  papers  which  Camilla  had  left,  every  date  they 
bore  convinced  him  that  Orsina  was  the  infant  to  whose 
neck  he  had,  with  his  own  hands,  attached  the  small  locket 
she  had  already  shown  him,  while  her  retentive  memory  still 
recalled  many  of  his  own  endearing  epithets,  and  other  tri- 
lling circumstances,  which  had  made  an  indelible  impression 
on  her  young  mind. 


.JIG  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

It  was  nearly  three  years  after  his  return  from  Italy,  that, 
to  the  great  joy  of  his  family,  who  had  long  and  vainly  urged 
his  marrying,  Lord  Aberford  had  become  acquainted  with 
his  present  wife,  in  whom  he  found  a  disposition  as  enthusi- 
astic, and  a  heart  as  affectionate,  as  those  which  had  charmed 
him  in  Camilla,  but  tempered  by  those  principles  of  religion 
and  morality  which  invest  even  our  earthly  feelings  with 
holiness.  Lady  Aberford's  conduct  to  the  daughter  of  her 
husband  was  such  as  endeared  her  doubly  to  him,  while  she 
was  sincerely  happy  of  an  opportunity  in  which  she  could 
prove  her  affection  for  both.  Lord  Aberford,  with  his  usual 
promptness  and  decision,  wrote  immediately  to  every  branch 
of  his  family,  acquainting  them  of  the  discovery  that  had 
taken  place,  and  of  his  wife's  determination*  to  continue  her 
protection  to  Orsina.  The  answers  were  more  or  less  cha- 
racteristic of  the  different  wTriters ;  but  amongst  the  first  that 
he  received  was  one  from  his  nephew.  It  was  couched  in 
the  most  affectionate  terms,  setting  before  his  uncle  the  dou- 
ble responsibility  under  which  he  now  lay  to  remove  every 
obstacle  to  their  happiness,  and  renewing,  in  formal  terms, 
his  proposition  for  Orsina's  hand.  But  Lord  Aberford,  in  his 
reply,  represented,  in  the  most  disinterested  manner,  that  the 
objections  were  in  no  way  surmounted,  and  even  digressed 
more  largely  than  before  on  the  disadvantages  of  the  union. 
Touched  by  the  repeated  supplicating  letters  he  received 
from  his  nephew  on  the  subject,  he  at  last  returned  this  final 
answer : 

"  You  must  know  me  too  well,  my  dear  Henry,  to  believe 
me  capable  of  sacrificing  duty  to  affection,  but  in  a  fewT 
months  you  will  attain  your  majority,  when  the  necessity  of 
obedience  to  your  guardian  ceases.  Should  no  change  have 
taken  place  in  your  opinions  by  that  time,  the  father  of  Or- 
sina will  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  bestow  her  hand  upon  one 
who  has  proved  his  sincere  affection  for  her." 

He  then   indited   a  letter,  in   a  somewhat  different  stvle, 


ORSINA    BllANDINl.  317 

to  Lady  Isabella,  acquainting  her  with  the  correspondence 
between  himself  and  her  son,  and  concluding  with  the  an- 
nouncement, that  in  the  event  of  his  own  death,  Orsina  would 
inherit  that  great  share  of  the  property  which  lay  in  his  own 
power,  together  with  Thurston  Hall,  Lady  Aberford's  jointure 
house,  on  that  lady's  demise.  Lady  Isabella  thought  proper 
to  maintain  a  dignified  silence  for  some  time,  and  then  re- 
plied, in  a  most  amiable  and  disinterested  strain,  in  which 
she  expressed  her  determination  of  sacrificing  her  just  resent- 
ment at  the  shrine  of  maternal  solicitude  for  the  happiness 
of  her  son,  at  the  same  time  declining  her  brother's  invitation 
to  be  present  at  the  wedding,  which  had,  in  fact,  been  wrung 
from  him  by  the  entreaties  of  his  wife  and  daughter.  And 
at  the  expiration  of  the  appointed  time,  Lord  and  Lady 
Aberford  welcomed  the  arrival  of  their  nephew  with  scarcely 
less  joy  than  the  blushing  Orsina,  who  stood  by  their  side, 
hardly  daring  to  believe  the  completion  of  her  heart's  dearest 
dream.  The  time  that  elapsed  during  the  preparation  of  the 
marriage  settlements  (which  dull  and  uninteresting  duty  was 
undertaken  by  Lord  Aberford),  was  passed  by  the  two  betrothed 
with  a  degree  of  happiness  which  it  would  be  as  tedious  as 
it  would  be  impossible  to  describe. 

Those  who  have  experienced  the  hallowed  intercourse  of 
souls,  sanctioned  by  a  parent's  blessing,  will  need  no  assist- 
ance to  bring  this  sweet  season  to  remembrance ;  and  those 
who  in  separation  recall  but  too  easily  the  kind  glance  and 
the  friendly  voice  that  used  to  greet  them,  will  scarcely  bear 
to  dwell  on  a  description  that  could  only  encourage  a  painful 
yearning,  and  a  lasting  regret  within  their  mind. 

The  only  circumstance  that  both  distressed  and  surprised 
Orsina,  was  Mary's  continued  refusal  to  be  her  bridemaid. 
She  pleaded  the  difficulty  of  leaving  Lady  Isabella  alone,  the 
delicate  state  of  her  own  health,  and  a  thousand  reasons,  none 
of  which  appeared  sufficiently  well  founded  to  satisfy  her  friend, 
to  whose  reiterated  petitions  she  at  length  yielded,  promising 


318  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

to  arrive  on  the  eve  of  the  wedding.  And  truly  shocked 
were  the  four  kind  friends  who  stood  at  the  door  to  welcome 
her,  as  Mary  Vernon  stepped  from  her  carriage,  and  they 
witnessed  the  change  so  short  a  time  had  effected.  Her 
complexion,  which  had  always  been  fair  in  the  extreme, 
was  now  of  a  dazzling  whiteness;  but  a  dark  rim  that  encir- 
cled her  eyes,  and  gave  a  double  charm  to  their  beaming 
expression,  and  a  bright  hectic  color,  which  was  called  to 
each  cheek  by  the  excitement  of  the  meeting,  told,  at  least, 
to  those  that  were  familiar  with  the  disease,  that  consumption 
had  already  stamped  her  as  its  own.  Her  very  voice  was 
altered,  but  her  sweet  affectionate  manner  was  the  same,  as 
she  smiled  faintly,  guessing  what  passed  in  their  minds. 

The  next  morning  she  rose  early  to  perform  the  duties  of 
bridemaid,  laughingly  observing  that  she  had  a  great  respect 
for  old  customs,  and  would  therefore  undertake  the  office  of 
"tire-woman"  to  the  bride. 

She  accordingly  arranged  the  wreath  of  myrtle  and  the 
long  veil,  in  such  a  manner  as  succeeded  in  her  intention 
of  recalling  to  Henry's  mind  the  first  evening  he  beheld 
Orsina — and  he  was  not  insensible  to  this  little  incident.  He 
had  prepared  a  most  beautiful  nosegay  from  his  aunt's  gar- 
den, which  he  presented  to  his  bride  as  she  entered  the 
drawing-room ;  but  she  refused  it  playfully,  saying  she  de- 
sired no  other  bouquet  than  the  withered  rosebud  he  had 
sent  her  as  a  pledge  the  year  preceding.  Henry  smiled, 
and  declaring  himself  much  offended,  offered  the  rejected 
flowers  to  Mary  Vernon,  who  accepted  them  without  hesi- 
tation. The  service  was  performed,  the  carriage  stood  at  the 
door,  and,  followed  by  blessings  and  prayers,  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  took  their  way  to  Thurston  Hall. 

Mary  had  thrown  off  her  wreath  and  veil,  and  sat  alone 
with  Henry's  flowers  in  her  hand,  musing  on  all  that  had 
passed,  and  all  that  was  in  store  for  her,  when  Lady  Aber- 
ford  entered. 


ORSINA    BRAND1NI.  319 

"  You  hinted,  my  dear  Mary,"  she  began,  "  that  you  had 
something  to  say  to  me;  are  you  at  leisure  now  to  talk  on  the 
subject?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  "I  wish  you  very  much  to  write  for 
me  to  Lady  Isabella.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  return,  unless, 
indeed,  she  wishes  me  to  do  so,  and  then  only  for  a  short 
time.  You  must  be  aware,  dear  Lady  Aberford,  that  I  cannot, 
in  all  human  probability,  live  much  longer;  and  though, 
Heaven  knows,  I  have  few  inducements  to  prolong  life,  yet 
I  believe  it  culpable  to  throw  away  carelessly  the  least  of 
God's  gifts.  My  physician  strongly  recommends  the  climate 
of  Italy,  and  I  have  accordingly  determined  to  proceed  there 
immediately.  An  excellent  woman,  who  was  once  gover- 
ness in  my  mother's  family,  will  accompany  me ;  and  the 
fortune  I  possess  will  enable  me  to  travel  with  comfort  and 
independence." 

"  My  dear  Mary,"  said  Lady  Aberford,  "  how  much  you 
shock  me !  I  was  in  hopes  you  would  have  remained  with  us  ; 
the  air  of  Aberford  always  did  you  good,  and  occasional 
visits  to  Orsina  will  be  a  pleasure  to  you  both." 

Mary  smiled  sadly ;  so  sadly,  that  for  the  first  time  a  thought 
passed  like  a  barbed  arrow  through  Lady  Aberford's  brain ; 
yet  she  added, 

"  Orsina's  last  request  to  me  was  to  detain  you  here  until 
they  both  drive  over  and  carry  you  off  to  Thurston." 

"  That  cannot  be,"  replied  Mary,  with  the  same  startling 
smile,  while  the  large  fiery  spot  extended  itself  over  her  cheek. 
In  her  confusion  she  raised  the  flowers  to  her  eyes,  then  ab- 
ruptly placed  them  on  the  table,  and  looking  up  hastily,  en- 
countered the  penetrating  eyes  of  her  companion.  They 
supported  each  other's  glance  for  a  few  moments ;  then  Lady 
Aberford  extended  her  hand  tenderly,  and  Mary,  rising  from 
her  seat,  threw  herself  upon  her  bosom  and  wept  long  and 
freely,  sweet  consoling  tears,  in  which  she  so  seldom  in- 
dulged.    No  word,  no  name  ever  passed  their  lips,  but  they 


320  THE    OFFERING    OF    BEAUTY. 

felt  the  understanding  was  mutual ;   nor  did  Lady  Aberford 

any  longer  oppose  Miss  Vernon's  resolutions. 

***** 

She  left  England  with  the  knowledge  that  she  would  never 
return;  she  tore  herself  from  those  few  ties  that  were  inter- 
woven with  her  existence,  and  went  on  her  way  to  die! 
She  wrandered  over  the  most  beautiful  tracts  of  country — she 
beheld  the  most  interesting  productions  of  art  and  nature, 
without  the  power  of  enjoyment.  Alone  in  every  sense  of 
the  wTord;  alike  insensible  to  the  curiosity  and  admiration 
which  she  excited,  she  felt  the  gradual  changes  come  over 
her  frame  which  denote  the  victory  of  the  disease,  and  ended 
her  life,  as  she  had  passed  it,  in  a  struggle  with  her  own 
heart. 


THE      END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


9Nov57KK 


REC'D  LD 


... 


MAY  3 1 1961 


JAN  29  1958 


AiM 


b*»i 


iSM'saSSB 


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!H'D  CD 


i,-irtK  9  -  ^959 





— - 





TOMarWRtt 


LD  21A-50m-8,'67 
(C8481sl0)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


M444(J1 


AM  II 

At 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


<7;  '  *     -: 


